A Kiss With The Earth
by E J Mulford
Summary: Three years after The Fall, Sherlock returns from the dead, expecting a warm welcome from his blogger-turned-lover. But when he finally comes home to John, it quickly becomes clear that this isn't the same man he left behind - and that 221B may no longer be home, after all. Sequel to 'A Kiss With The Air' (MUST read first). Same format, 30 Johnlock kisses. M for sex & language.
1. Longing

**Longing**

xxxx

x

The last time John Watson allows himself to kiss Sherlock Holmes, it starts to rain.

"I quit," he announces with a clearing of his throat. "Handed my notice in. I think Sarah's just relieved she won't have to sack me herself." He pauses, before adding matter-of-factly, "She'd have had to do it soon, anyway." It would have been his own fault. Too many days off, too many complaints about him from unsympathetic patients. Dramatic increase in frequency of emotional breakdowns. Rapid decline in ability to give a damn. He knows that, somewhere deep down, he should care, like he once did. But it's been too lonely and too long since then for him to remember how. "It's better this way." John supposes he would vent a little bit of this to Ella (just a little, just enough to keep her satisfied for another week) if he didn't begin boycotting his therapy sessions six months ago. "I don't think she likes seeing me like this." Speaking of therapy – he hasn't heard from Mycroft in even longer. Hasn't seen him. No surprise kidnappings, and he checked the bookcase for hidden cameras. Nothing. It's as if the British Government has simply forgotten that John exists, not that you'll hear him complaining. Mycroft only ever seemed to remind him of...someone else.

This can't be normal, can it? This dark ocean, this black tide pulling him out into the deep and dragging him down, holding him under the surface until it feels as though his lungs will burst from the chill of that icy, onyx water forcing its way in. It's as though he hasn't been able to breathe for three years, and it can't be normal. As a doctor and a soldier, grief has always been something he's had to deal with on a near-daily basis. But he had never been the one on the other side of that curtain, the one who couldn't sleep, didn't want to eat, the one so depressed that even getting up in the morning seemed like a pointless, insurmountable task. When his father died, the veil was lifted; he'd stared straight into that sightless, empty void of nothingness and he'd sworn to himself that he'd never go back there, that dancing on the edge when he was invalided home was as close as he ever, ever wanted to get. He still grieved. He survived. But then when Sher...

John squeezes his eyes shut, tight.

When _he_...after The Fall...there was no lifting of the veil. He was pushed right through and over and into the abyss and he can't, for the life of him, find the strength to climb out again. He's not even sure if he _can_ climb out. He's not even sure if he wants to.

_Come on, John. Don't drown._

"Anyway," the doctor sighs. "Enough about me. I, uh...I brought these for you." Clearing his throat again, John steps forward and sinks carefully, slowly, to his knees. He thinks nothing of dirtying his jeans as he sets a small bouquet of white roses down against the sleek, black tombstone he knows all too well. The little card inside the wrapping is blank. He ran out of words long ago. A quick glance around would confirm that the rest of the cemetery is empty, but John doesn't need to look; early winter has turned everything to dreary, cloudy grey skies and dying foliage, skeletal trees and bitingly cold wind, driving away even the most dedicated of visitors. No one else is here, especially not with him. Mrs Hudson and Molly and Lestrade and all the others stopped coming after the first year. The tips of his fingers and ears are slowly turning numb, a breeze sweeping under his collar to make a shiver run down his spine. _Distant memories of clever, pale fingers and trembling skin_. Somewhere in the back of his mind, John knows that this weather isn't going to do his old shoulder wound any good. It'll ache like a bitch later, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care anymore.

Lifting a hand, the blogger's throat convulses as he swallows hard, and touches his fingertips to the smooth marble. The gaping hole inside of him burns at the contact. John's eyes travel slowly over the tombstone, taking in a delicately carved name, a name he hasn't had the courage to speak aloud for almost three years. A name belonging to the cool grey eyes and strong cupid's bow haunting his every waking moment. John's left hand shakes as he raises it to brush at some dried dirt that has no right to stain the marble, thumbing it away before moving to polish the spot back up to a shine, using the cuff of his jacket sleeve. _He wouldn't want it dirty. He'd want it to look fancy, like he was somebody important. Like he meant something._ There are more mud smudges, and a few weeds have started to spring up here and there; John sets to work without a second thought, cleaning and buffing and pulling. His tongue rolls out and licks his lip, he coughs to try and clear the sudden lump from his throat, he blinks furiously. Minutes pass before his shoulders sag and he slumps forward, right hand gripping the edge of the tombstone, an involuntary sob wringing itself from him. John's eyes close and his face crumples and hot tears spill over because _he was so important he was someone he was everything._ The marble is freezing against his brow."Oh, _my love_."

He can feel the ever-present darkness creeping up, crawling under his skin, wrapping around his lungs and clawing at the wounds inside him. "_My love_." Why him? Why did it have to be him? Just when they were finally so happy, so proud of what they were building together – John's thin frame quivers helplessly. _Promise me you'll believe in me, always. _"_Sherlock_."

Above him, clouds thicken. A raindrop lands on the shell of his ear, the back of his hand, the nape of his neck.

It's a long time before John is able to move, tears dripping from his chin, eyes red and burning, and when he does it's only to lift his head and press his lips firmly against the elegant lettering of his detective's name. "_I'm so sorry_," he whispers, the words coming out hoarse and scratchy. "_I'm so sorry._" A deep, shuddering breath forces its way into his chest. Another. Then another, until he feels like he can speak with conviction. "I came to say goodbye," he rasps, forcing his eyes to open. Pulling back, his knees quake beneath him as he stands, and he feels the ghost of a soft mouth against his as though it never left. "I have to say goodbye, darling. I have to let you go."

John swears he hears a baritone rumble in his ear.

_Goodbye, John._

x

_Here we go again, guys. I hope you enjoy this next instalment in John and Sherlock's lives together as they try to pick up the pieces :)_

_I have a lot going on in my personal life, so this instalment's chapters will come **one every other** **day**__. I wish I could do one a day like before, but I'm also trying to balance other projects and prepping to start a degree so please bear with me!_


	2. Forgotten

**Forgotten**

xxxx

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It starts with John's alarm going off at ten o'clock, two hours later than it was supposed to, for the third day in a row. The doctor slaps at the snooze button and for a moment just lies there, staring up at the ceiling. A luxury he always used to appreciate, when he still had a job that forced him to break the land speed record getting up every morning. Now, though, it's just extra time alone inside his head. Time he doesn't need, or want. As soon as he feels the dark thoughts starting to creep up, he pushes back the sheets and swings his legs out of bed. Maybe his clock is breaking. Or maybe a ghost has decided they should shack up together (_don't think of him wouldn't be him even if he'd piss God off too much to stay up there you don't believe in the afterlife remember he's gone John he's gone_) and mess with him a bit. Either way, the extra two hours every day seem to be helping clear the usual, irremovable fog of exhaustion from his mind.

John rubs at the back of his neck as he pads downstairs in his pyjama pants and sleep shirt.

He pauses on the landing; the door to 221B is wide open, sunlight flooding the interior through curtains that were closed when he went to bed last night – _don't think of sunshine lean figure dust motes trapped in glossy curls the violin the music the song your song the one he wrote don't think of it John don't go there _– "Mrs Hudson?" the blogger calls out, body flooding with a kind of caution that the army made second nature. He waits a few seconds for a reply. It never comes. The first prickle of adrenaline sweeps down his spine.

Of course, it could be absolutely nothing. Mrs Hudson could have come and gone and simply forgotten to close the door on her way out, as she often does. She stopped insisting _not your housekeeper, dear_ after The Fall, and took to hanging around the flat more than necessary, especially in those first few months when he completely went to pieces. God knows he barely slept, and wouldn't have eaten at all if it weren't for cling-filmed lasagnes and a constant supply of leftovers. The honourable landlady had fed him and kept the flat clean and looked after him like he was one of her own: the only thing she'd let be was the thin film of dust gradually gathering over microscopes and Petri dishes, items that neither of them yet had the strength to touch or move. _Dust is eloquent, after all._ But in the eighteen months he spent with _him_, John learnt that it's always better to be more on the safe side. They'd had a couple break-ins before, nasty Americans, the odd knife-wielding 'old friend' of Sher..._Sherlock's_.

Simply thinking the name is enough to spur John into movement. "Mrs Hudson?" he tries again, taking a slow step into 221B and looking around. No signs of life, but he does notice that the dirty teacups and plates previously cluttering the coffee table are now missing. John throws a quick glance over his shoulder before moving towards the kitchen, and then stops short at the sight of freshly-washed crockery sitting on the draining board. The edge of his mouth lifts in a weak smile. He scratches absent-mindedly at the week's worth of stubble on his jaw. _Good old Mrs Hudson._ Sighing, the doctor starts to go through the motions. He fills the kettle, flips the switch, dries a mug and begins making himself a cuppa, socked feet following the same established routine they have almost every morning for the past four and a half years. The pause as he peers into the cupboards, debating whether or not to make toast (_remember how you had to remind him to eat John he'd always forget without you there remember all those late nights at Angelo's breakfast in bed that he made on your birthday the toast was burnt because he got distracted but that didn't matter it was special occasion mulberry jam and he made it_) is very distinctive. He has just decided, with a sudden painful clench of his chest and lurch of his stomach, that food doesn't sound at all appealing, when a sharp bleep catches his attention. His phone is flashing on the otherwise bare kitchen table. _Greg? _he wonders, frowning. _Molly? Mike?_ He seriously hopes it's not the Detective Inspector; as much of a great friend and reliable shoulder as Greg's been since..._It _happened, John thought he made it abundantly clear that he didn't want to assist in cases anymore. Work had helped take his mind off things at first, but in recent months it only felt more and more wrong to be visiting crime scenes and inspecting corpses alone. He's a doctor, not a consulting detective. The world only had one of those. It will never have another.

As the kettle finishes boiling, the blogger retrieves his phone and inspects the screen. _Number Unknown_. Probably telemarketing people again.

Only it's not, because the text that he opens reads:

_Just tea for me, thank you – SH._

John's heart stops.

The phone hits the table with a clatter and he's gasping, _no no no no no – _and just like that, he can't breathe. His lungs stop working and his pulse is pounding and even as a woozy, light-headed sensation washes over him John can feel the blood rushing in his ears. Knees buckling, he collapses into the nearest chair, shaking violently _going to faint going to faint_ and fights to stay conscious while trying to work out how fast Greg will be able to trace that number and the person behind this _sick fucking joke_ –

Stars pop in his vision and just when he thinks he's about to keel over, just when he starts to panic, gentle fingers are touching his chin and tilting it up and there, _right there_, are two endless grey eyes that he thought he'd never, ever see again, and the shock is so great that it overrides everything else and all he can do is struggle for breath and _stare_.

Sherlock Holmes stares right back.

He has been dead for three years, one month, six days and four hours.

"John," he murmurs in a voice soft as cashmere, and in that one word, that one look, he sees and feels everything.

_Lost eight and a half pounds, clothes hanging too loose, face too thin – rarely eats, mostly does so at someone else's insistence. No sign of breakfast preparation, but he never missed breakfast when we were together. Dark circles under his eyes; insomnia, a bit better now than it was before but never more than a few hours at a time, never without nightmares, not just about Afghanistan anymore. Cultivation of stubble, not through loss of grooming regimen but intentional; not for himself, he never much cared for facial hair, too itchy, too much trouble, this is for someone else, someone has pointed out how well it suits him, someone he's close with someone he...oh._ The detective's eyes widen and dart down to take a mental inventory of John's clothes. _Different detergent. Recently washed by another person. He spends some nights out of the flat, and when he does he isn't sleeping alone. _This knowledge hits him like a freight train square in the chest, because the thought of John with someone _not himself _is just so horrifically, terribly _wrong_ – but the doctor in question appears to have forgotten how to respire and that is a far more pressing issue at this moment in time. Sherlock meets deep, disbelieving blue orbs with what he hopes is a strong gaze, and says in his firmest, but kindest tone, "John, breathe."

"_Sher..._"

"_Breathe_, love."

Amazingly, John does so; maybe it's because he decides then, in that instant, that he must have finally cracked. Or maybe it's the hand that comes up to press over his wildly thundering heart as if in reassurance, but whatever it is, it feels as though a breezeblock has been lifted from his chest. He sucks in a shaky, shallow lungful of air. "That's it," Sherlock rumbles, smiling lightly. "And let it out." John's trembling is visible as he releases the breath.

"_I'm crazy_," he sighs out along with it. "_I'm fucking insane_." Something like a wavering laugh finds its way out of Sherlock's mouth.

"Oh, John," he whispers, "Anything but." And there, kneeling in front of his blogger on their kitchen floor, he explains everything.

Moriarty's Final Problem, the fake call from the paramedics about Mrs Hudson, the snipers, surviving the fall with the help of Molly and his homeless network, some slow-acting muscle-relaxants and sedatives. "To protect you," the detective insists, expression earnest, because it's simply _imperative _that John understand, that he know, _I could never live with myself if something happened to you because of me, I would rather give you up than let you come to harm. _He'll save the details of what happened afterwards for another day; for now a brief summary of the three years he spent travelling the world and eradicating Moriarty's web of criminals one by one will do. "I was so empty without you, John," Sherlock gasps, so close that he could reach out and brush the older man's nose with his own if he wanted to. "So empty. So hollow." He explains how he worried for the doctor, constantly, and how the British Government has been keeping tabs on John from afar. "It was too dangerous for my brother to try and contact me at any time," he mumbles, "but I trusted Mycroft to step in if you were in serious trouble. I knew he'd look after you, when I could not."

John seems to have calmed considerably now, some of the colour returning to his face. His too-thin frame has stopped shaking and his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, the look in his eyes growing more intense with every passing second. Sherlock can almost see the cogs turning inside John's head, but for once he can't bear to deduce what's going on in there – instead, Sherlock takes the doctor's face in his hands, edging closer on his knees to stay at eye-level, and the words that he forces out next are hushed in the quiet of their kitchen. "_My dear John_. I am so sorry, my love. So sorry for what I put you through." His eyebrows draw together and his eyes are fearful, afraid, because if _he_ had been the one to watch John die...all of a sudden, the fact that his blogger has been sleeping with someone else in recent weeks is irrelevant. "If there had been _any_ other way," he continues, utter sincerity hanging from every syllable, "I would have taken it. I hated every minute, every _second_ that I was away from you." Drawing in a shuddery breath, he wipes gently with his thumb at a stray tear sliding down John's cheek. "Please, John. _Forgive me_."

This is it. He's planned this moment so many times, played it over and over again in his mind in the dark hours of the night, alone in grubby hotel rooms on the other side of the world with only the thought of his blogger to warm him. The moment where he gets to sweep John into his arms and never leave, where he feels the man's lips against his own for the first time in _so long_, too long, and prays for those three words to leave John's mouth and absolve him of this one, grievous sin.

_I love you with all of the heart you gave me._

God, how badly he wants to kiss him. He can't remember what it's like, can't remember the taste and feel of him and it's a crime, it's unnatural, not right that he doesn't know and Sherlock leans slowly in, and attempts to conjure up every forgotten kiss and touch that he tried so desperately to recall and cling onto when he was alone and John's lips are _right there so close my God John you have no idea just how beautiful wonderful incredible you are_ –

"_No_." The doctor jerks away just as the detective's mouth is mere millimetres from his. Sherlock blinks, startled, sitting back on his heels, hands falling from John's face.

"John – "

"No." There's a sharp scraping noise as the chair moves, and John stands, chest heaving. Sherlock can see it, the instant that the wall comes down behind his blogger's eyes, shutting him out. Carefully distanced. He feels it like the cutting of ties. He feels it like the once indestructible bond between them as it severs, right down the middle.

And Sherlock Holmes knows, then, that he may have broken John Watson beyond repair.

x

_Aaaaand...breathe. Phew! Okay, so, down to business. I'm aware I'm probably destroying a lot of feels, and I'm so sorry for that - but I really want to try and be as realistic as possible, y'know? In all honesty, I'm quite nervous because I was writing about a similiar situation for another fandom a few years ago, and opted to do the more angsty, realistic route (with the full intention of a happy ending for the characters) and I received a lot of flames and angry reviews for it. I lost a lot of readers and it knocked me so badly that I left the fandom. However, I've found that the people in the Sherlock fandom are so much more open-minded and far nicer so I hope you'll bear with me! _

_I can promise you that Sherlock and John will have a happy ending by the end of this fic, and I won't torture you every chapter - it's just going to be a gradual growth back to what they were._

_Thank you, as usual, for all the lovely reviews, favourites, follows, etc. You all rock!_


	3. Wrong

**Wrong**

xxxx

x

This is not what Sherlock expected.

He'd caught up with his final target a little over a month ago, in Poland: Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right-hand man and the sniper responsible for dispatching John, should the consulting detective fail to plummet to his death. The man was a stone-cold killer, ex-military, almost as mad as his boss and twice as savage. It seemed fitting to take him out with his own preferred weapon of choice. Perfect irony. Didn't stop Sherlock throwing up for an hour afterwards, in the bathroom of his dingy backstreet flat paid for cash-in-hand. But then he'd gotten himself together, and called Mycroft, and by the following night was being ushered into the utterly deserted Diogenes Club where every single inch of him was scrutinised by his older brother – from his gingery-blonde too-long hair to the raggedy clothes swamping his near skeletal frame. A car ride, hot shower, box of hair dye and change of clothes later, Sherlock had been forced to consider the fact that he may have underestimated Mycroft from the beginning. In less than 48 hours he'd brought Sherlock Holmes back from the dead, albeit in a suit that no longer properly fit; the genius made a mental note to thank his brother, at a later date when he had better control of his emotions, for ensuring that all of his belongings found their way into Mycroft's possession for safekeeping.

The conversation that followed between them was lengthy and dangerously fraught with sentiment. An experience to be revisited and analysed, but not today.

Once all the appropriate paperwork had been burned or altered, the consulting detective had gone to see Molly, first, in the locker room of St Bart's morgue at the end of her shift. There'd been the predictable tears and a surprisingly loud shriek of surprise, because even though she'd helped him survive The Fall Molly Hooper had mourned him privately for a long time – after the first year passed she thought him dead, laid to waste by one of Jim's men alone in some far-off country. Sherlock could read it all in her eyes, in the tight grip of her fingers at the back of his coat, and found he didn't mind so much when she buried her face in his chest and just clung on and breathed him in for a little while. She was wearing lipstick, but not for him. _Increased self-confidence. Frequents clubs, wider social circle. Boyfriend, serious. Ten months. The nurse from upstairs who always used to blush and stumble over his words whenever we (or more specifically she) passed him in the corridor._ Her smile said it all. Molly seemed unable to stop smiling, even while she obligingly cut his hair.

Next was Lestrade, whose keys he'd pick-pocketed – their old ritual, he couldn't resist – in order to corner the Detective Inspector in the underground car park of the Yard later that evening. Stepping out from behind Lestrade's car, he'd gone so pale that Sherlock was momentarily concerned the man might faint. But he needn't have worried, because before he could say a word, before he could explain a single thing, he had been pulled into an entirely unexpected but very enthusiastic hug. It took Sherlock a few seconds to register that his old colleague was in fact hugging him for the first time in their entire relationship, and swearing profusely under his breath. _You idiot. You bloody fucking brilliant idiot, Sherlock Holmes. _Of course, Lestrade soon let him go and instead grasped his shoulders, giving him a shake, demanding to know what he'd done and where he'd been and why and _do you know what you've done to John you great twit do you understand what you've done to him_ – but the detective was too busy trying to absorb the overwhelming rush of new data. Lestrade was stronger than he'd thought. Lestrade cared.

Mrs Hudson hadn't been so composed. She'd dropped her half-washed dish back into the sink with a smash and would've screamed if he hadn't quickly moved forward, shushing her desperately so that she wouldn't disturb any ex-army doctors. As it was the dear old landlady had slapped at him with her tea towel for a good five minutes believing him to be some kind of apparition. And then when she finally calmed down she threw her arms around his waist and sobbed something about _missed the gunshots _and slapped at him some more. Because Mrs Hudson did not appreciate having her fine china broken no matter who was returning from the dead.

The next morning, Sherlock crept upstairs and picked the lock of 221B. Stood there, drank in the sight and smell and feel of home. Mycroft had deliberately avoided the topic of John, and without the world's only consulting detective at his side the newspapers didn't talk about him anymore. But it was obvious the moment he set foot inside the flat, that something was wrong. Too much clutter, too much disorganisation. The John he knew wasn't exactly a 'clean freak' but he would never have left dirty teacups or month-old newspapers lying around. So he'd done a spot of tidying, opened the curtains and washed up all the used crockery, and then waited in their old bedroom (completely untouched since the day before his 'death') for John to wake up. Setting the doctor's alarm two hours later for the previous few days had been relatively easy; he wanted time to get used to being back in 221B, to make sure that his planned speech would not be interfered with by sudden surges of emotion. Needless to say, the speech was not well-received.

This is not what he expected. What he hoped for, what he dreamt of in those lonely nights across oceans and continents and countries whose names he has long since deleted. He sleeps in their bed again, oh yes – but John doesn't sleep there with him. He takes cases again, one after another but without a blogger to work alongside him. Sherlock plays the violin, conducts experiments at the kitchen table, fills the fruit and veg drawer in the fridge with an assortment of severed appendages. He makes tea. He updates his website. He shoots at the wall when he's bored.

And John doesn't say a single word to him. Not one. Complete and utter silence, for three whole weeks. The man doesn't blog about anything, doesn't complain, doesn't even register Sherlock's existence and God, if it doesn't _hurt_ like hell every time the detective speaks up and receives nothing in reply. He feels more like a ghost now than he did when he was 'dead'. But he knows what John's doing – blanking him, blocking him out because if he acknowledges that Sherlock's alive then he'll have to acknowledge everything else, too. The reality of what Sherlock did. The possibility of continuing their lives together, just like before, laid out in front of him. He'll have to confront his feelings, his emotions, his deeply depressed mental state. All the things that he said and did because he thought that his detective was gone forever. Sherlock deserves every second of the silent treatment. He deserves much, much worse. But John is running from it, and he's hiding behind the one barrier that is tangible, physical between them. The one wall that isn't inside his head, isn't self-imposed for the sake of his own sanity.

Her name is Mary.

She is petite, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, sweet and strong-willed, and Sherlock hates her. She's genuine and kind-hearted and he hates her with every fibre of his being, because she is also _John's_. Mary Morstan and John Watson, Baker Street's new dynamic duo. She's the one who sleeps next to John, now spending nearly every night out of the flat. She's the one who gets to just _talk_ to him, to try and make him smile and laugh (God knows if he even does anymore, because his expression is always emotionless and unchanging around the consulting detective). Sherlock has met her once, a week after his return; John came into the living room smelling of his best cologne and wearing what Sherlock recognised as one of his nicest 'Date Night' shirts, and for a moment he dared to hope that maybe the doctor was going to tell him to put his coat on because they were going to Angelo's. No such luck. A minute later a strange blonde was at the door, smiling and introducing herself as _Mary, so pleased to meet you!_ having come to pick John up for their movie and dinner date. _Primary school teacher. Likes classic comedy. Cares for him a lot, but not in love. Tonight is their one-month anniversary. _She didn't even seem fazed by the cold silence and piercing glare thrown her way. If she wasn't shagging _his_ man, he might be impressed.

There are a number of things he could do to drive her away; he was successful in scaring off all of John's girlfriends in the past, real or fake. But no matter how much scheming helps distract him from the stomach-twisting knowledge that John is with someone else, Sherlock instinctively knows it won't work with this one. Not to mention it will only make John hate him more.

Lost in his thoughts, Sherlock winces as he stalks into the Department at Scotland Yard, ready to reel off his latest deduction to Lestrade before looking over some fresh evidence that the Detective Inspector has for him. _He doesn't hate me_, he tries to reassure himself. _He's just distancing himself from me out of denial and self-preservation. And I need to think of a way to stop it, as soon as possible._ But the internal pep-talk doesn't do him much good, because this morning he made John tea and breakfast in an attempt to tap on the wall the doctor has built. He even used apricot _for when he's mad at me_ jam, and asked, in a very polite and careful tone, if John had plans for the day. He's pretty sure even Mrs Hudson heard the door slam behind the blogger as he walked out. _There's got to be something I can do_, he thinks, forehead creasing in confusion and worry. _There must be some way to get through – _

He stops, quite abruptly, in the middle of an aisle in the sea of desks and cubicles. Because there is John, standing inside Lestrade's office talking to the DI and Donovan. A small blonde is attached to his side like glue, and as Sherlock watches she says something that makes the corners of John's mouth lift, and then the doctor is looking down at her, and he mumbles some unintelligible words and she smiles and stands up on tiptoes and she –

_Oh._

Mary kisses him.

It's chaste and brief but all of a sudden Sherlock can't breathe, because it's one thing to imagine it but another thing entirely to actually _see _it. He goes completely still, frozen, unable to move for the two seconds that it lasts, before John's eyes flicker up of their own accord and lock with those of the consulting detective. Instantly John pulls back, eyes going wide on the other side of the glass as if things haven't grown so distant and chilly between them of late. The look on his face makes Mary, Lestrade _and _Donovan all turn, and of course there's no way they can miss Sherlock Holmes standing there, all six feet of him quivering like a leaf though he doesn't even realise it. But the doctor doesn't look. He _can't_ look, gaze falling to the floor, that indifferent mask falling over his face instinctively, effortlessly. Sherlock realises, right in that moment, just how much he _really can't handle_ the thought of John's lips on someone else, his fingers, his hands, his tongue, and _Jesus Christ _he needs some air, has to get out of here – turning somewhat unsteadily, Sherlock starts to stride away as quickly as he can without physically running, hand running through his hair, perfectly aware of the fact that some of the surrounding officers are staring at him, watching as he flees.

He's Sherlock Holmes. He has a tongue as sharp as his cheekbones and his intellect.

Since when was _he_ ever fragile?

_Since John. Since he showed me humanity._

John shouldn't be kissing Mary, shouldn't be kissing any other person for that matter, except his detective, except Sherlock. It's not right. _Not right_. He feels it in his chest like a knife wound and in his stomach like a lead weight as he hurries out of the Department, turning blindly down the corridor in the direction of the elevator. He doesn't even know where he's going, just not back to the flat, _can't be there right now, too many memories, too many reminders_...John was his first everything, first best friend, first partner, first kiss, first shag, first love. He'd never had anyone else to show him what heartbreak was, and even though he's always hated the ridiculousness of the term, Sherlock has to admit now that it's frighteningly accurate. He'd thought it hurt to tell John goodbye, but that was nothing compared to this. _How often does she kiss him? Does she always initiate? Does he initiate sometimes? Does he _want_ to kiss her? Is she better at it than me? Does he like kissing her more than he liked kissing me?_ A shake of his head does nothing to fight the thoughts off; they continue to press in, tormenting, a sudden slew of horrible, _horrible_ ideas that his freight-train mind can't dismiss, his usual powers of deletion and compartmentalisation useless under the weight of the emotions bombarding him. It feels as though his brain is going to explode at any second.

Except then Sherlock registers the footsteps catching him up, and a hand closes around the sleeve of his coat and pulls, and the next thing he knows he's being shoved none-too-gently into a nearby supply cupboard. The door snaps shut and for a few moments he stands there in total darkness, shaking, adrenaline making his skin tingle and his heart pound because _John why did you follow me why her why why why why_ – A shuffling of feet. The flick of a switch, and it's not John.

"_Anderson?_" The forensic scientist simply glares at him, and immediately Sherlock goes into the rude, defensive mode he's used to using around the man. It doesn't even compute with him that he hasn't actually _seen_ Anderson in over three years, having insisted that Lestrade let him visit crime scenes with minimal officers present. He does realise, however, that he must look a sight: white as a sheet, he expects, and his suit hangs awkwardly on him from the weight he's lost. He can't still his trembling frame. His eyes are wet, and his chest heaves. So, naturally, he opens his mouth to deliver some snappy remark about a pathetic attempt at seduction, something to help him save face when he's clearly such a mess, only to be cut off before a single word can leave his lips.

"Shut up," Anderson orders, folding his arms across his chest. "Don't say a word." Sherlock's mouth closes with a snap, but only because he recognises a dusty box of ring-binders and realises, with a painful kick to the gut, that this is his and John's secret kissing cupboard. Shifting his weight between his feet, Anderson's frown deepens and he says, in a voice full of unusual authority, "Now let's get this straight. I don't like you and you don't like me, but I'm going to talk, and you're going to listen. Understand?" The detective nods dumbly. "Good." He takes a breath, as if preparing to give some kind of long, important speech. Perhaps he is, Sherlock wonders, feeling a little queasy as the adrenaline starts to wear off and _the kiss_ plays over and over again in his mind's eye.

"You need to pull it together." Sherlock's gaze flits up, watery grey eyes meeting serious, dark brown. What? "You need to sort yourself out," Anderson continues firmly, like he's talking to a rebellious teenager who's done wrong. "You don't get to walk away, Sherlock. No matter how much it hurts to see him with her – and she is _lovely_ by the way," he adds, raising an eyebrow pointedly. "No matter how much it hurts you, it's nothing compared to what it was like for him when you died. Well, when we thought you died. Or whatever." His nose wrinkles, but somehow it seems less in distaste. More as though he's revisiting things he'd rather not remember. "It was fucking horrible. He was a wreck. I know me and him have never exactly been best mates but Jesus, I'd have taken him to the pub myself if Greg hadn't assigned himself that job. Anyway..." Shoulders relaxing slightly, Anderson looks up at the consulting detective and feels his face soften just a fraction. The bloke's just as much of a car crash as the doctor was. Is. Maybe Sherlock Holmes isn't such a psychopath (_no, sorry, 'high-functioning sociopath'_) after all. "We all know you did it to save him. But he's not just going to _accept_ that, Sherlock. That's why he won't speak to you – oh, yeah, I know about that. Gossip travels fast in the Department – and it's why he hasn't broken up with Mary. He's a fucking mess already but when it hits him that you're really here, really alive, he's gonna go to pieces, and when that happens you've got to be there and you've got to have it _together_. You don't get to break, not when you're the one who broke him." Anderson falls silent, an embarrassed flush creeping up his neck. He tells himself he wouldn't be doing this if it wasn't for Sally being so worried about John. Straightening up, he waits for the detective to say something.

Sherlock stares at him, the words sinking in slowly. As much as he hates to admit it, Anderson's right. He doesn't get to cry or make a fuss over John having tried to move on. All of this is his fault and he needs to deal with it. He has a spine, he needs to bloody use it. _You're a Holmes. For God's sake man, pull yourself together. Mycroft would never let you hear the end of it if he saw you now._ Swallowing, Sherlock takes a deep breath and lets it out, nodding once. Anderson nods back. Then they simply stand there, Sherlock wracking his brain as he watches the scientist fidget awkwardly. How exactly do you thank a man who has made no secret of hating you since the day you met?

Glancing down at Anderson's folded arms, he spies a ring finger absent a wedding band. "You divorced your wife," he rumbles, voice only slightly hoarse. "Two years ago. She got the house, probably most of your physical possessions." His eyes move back up as he smiles smugly. "Donovan still scrubbing your floors, is she?" Anderson scowls, huffing and opening the door. Out in the corridor, he turns and snaps in agitation,

"It's good to have you back, Freak," before slamming the door shut and stalking away.

Inside the cupboard, Sherlock heaves in a second deep breath. He manages another, weaker smile, and can't help but think that it's about time Anderson said something of actual use.

x

_I haven't yet read this through for mistakes, I'll do that now. I'm aware that this chapter's kiss is not a Johnlock kiss, which is cheating a little bit - but it needed to happen for the sake of the plot, and if I'd tried to write a kiss between John and Sherlock that felt wrong I'd have died inside because that just isn't possible. Gah. So I made the chapter extra long to make up for it!_

_Confession: I have a serious soft spot for Anderson. I can't help myself, I'm sorry (not sorry)._

_Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews for the last chapter, you're all so lovely and keep me inspired!_


	4. Strategic

**Strategic**

xxxx

x

John has never really been one for drinking to excess – unlike most of his friends there are only a handful of times when he's been blind drunk. But tonight, as Molly's boyfriend gets up from their booth table to go collect the next round of drinks, John thinks he might make an exception. Being absolutely smashed sounds like a wonderful idea right now. If he was drunk he wouldn't have to think, wouldn't have to remember anything. That would be nice. "Hey!" comes Molly's voice, shouting to be heard over the loud music in the club. Edging closer, the pathologist gives him a gentle nudge in the ribs with her elbow. "_Smile_, John. It won't hurt you!"

"She has a point, Captain Cheerful!" agrees Sally from across the table, eyebrow quirked and earrings jingling as she tilts her head at him pointedly. Beside her Anderson says nothing, remaining silent and staring off into the throngs of dancing people with glazed-over eyes. Somewhere in amongst the crowd are Greg and Sarah, together now thanks to a certain doctor. Admittedly John set them up in the hope that if they hit it off then the Detective Inspector would have less time to focus on dragging him to the pub whenever he was going through one of his reclusive phases. They did hit it off – but John soon realised that all he'd done was give Greg a partner with which to co-ordinate and double his efforts to stop his friend from becoming a hermit.

Somewhat reluctantly, the doctor forces the corners of his mouth up into a half-hearted smile. It doesn't reach his eyes, but it seems to satisfy Molly, who grins and pats him on the arm. Sally nods her approval and goes back to her fourth vodka and lemonade. Not for the first time tonight, John finds himself wishing he'd stayed at home. Watched a movie, read a book. Or better yet, just gone to bed. Not entirely because he's felt like a third wheel all night without Mary here (he curses Class Three and the stack of maths work she has to mark), although it'll definitely be awkward later when everyone else has had one or three too many and starts getting off with their respective other halves. No, he had plenty of time to get used to third-wheeling before he met Mary; the thing that's bothering him so much, that's making his palms sweat and breathing become ten times harder than normal, is the tall, dark-haired detective sitting at the bar on the other side of the room. His back is turned, hunched over a glass of water that he won't have touched, but John doesn't need to see his face. Just the man's presence is enough to tangle his nerves and squeeze his stomach in a very, _very _bad way. He thinks he could shake Molly for suggesting that they invite Sherlock along on their group night out – and for lying to him about Sherlock's death – if he hadn't grown so damned fond of her after all these years.

She probably hoped that prolonged exposure to one another's company would encourage he and the detective to interact, force a dent into the wall John has carefully constructed between them. What the pathologist (and everyone else for that matter) seems to keep overlooking is that John _lives_ with the genius. He endures Sherlock's company nearly every minute of every day without speaking a single word to him – because he's afraid that if he does open his mouth he'll scream. That he'll start yelling and he won't be able to stop until his throat is raw and all that's left of him is just a broken, empty shell of a man.

Sherlock, meanwhile, doesn't have time for any such inner reflection. He's done enough of that over the past few days, shut away in his room going over Anderson's words, dissecting them, analyzing, planning. The mind-numbing scientist is, unfortunately, absolutely correct; he doesn't have the right to be hurt or angry that John has attempted to move on, or even that he's deliberately withdrawing from him. No right at all. However, Sherlock has decided, that doesn't mean he can't fight to bring John back. If he was the one to break the doctor, then he'll be the one to fix him. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more Sherlock realised that he never intends to let John go without a fight. He's said it before: love is a vicious motivator. But jealousy? Jealousy may just be the most vicious of them all, and he has the perfect plan to test his theory. It involves himself, the ample-chested brunette openly eye-balling him from across the bar, and a kiss. A one-off, obviously, because the mere thought of kissing someone who isn't John is enough to firmly turn him off for the rest of the evening, but something in full view of the ex-army doctor looking for all the world like a Roman peasant about to be thrown to the lions. Something to stir in him the emotions that Sherlock felt yesterday, watching the man kiss his _girlfriend_ (ugh, even the word tastes wrong on the tip of his tongue), in the hope that John's wall will fracture just enough for Sherlock to start working his way back in with far more gentle methods. Hurting John further doesn't weigh lightly on his conscience, but what else can he do? How else can he remind the doctor of his own feelings, of what they used to feel, of how they used to be? How else can he make John want him again? The idea of being with someone Not John makes him wrinkle his nose in disgust, but he wishes he had a wider range of knowledge about human emotions and relationships. More experience. Maybe then he'd know what to do. The brunette bats her eyelashes at him, smiling in what Sherlock supposes is meant to be a sultry, seductive manner. He thinks of Old John on their only Christmas together, fairisle jumper and wine-rosied cheeks and all, barely acknowledging his latest beard – another teacher, Jennifer or whatever her name was – but sneaking teasing brushes of hips and fingers whenever he had Sherlock alone in the kitchen. The detective smiles at the memory, and this is seemingly enough to appease the young woman.

Fortunately Molly's boyfriend chooses that moment to approach the bar, blocking the brunette from Sherlock's view, and he allows his smile to vanish. Oh, this is going to be unpleasant..."You can still come over and sit with us, y'know. It's a big booth, there's room." Average height, average build, the blonde nurse grins at the bartender and recites the order of drinks for the group as Sherlock twirls his glass of water between his fingertips.

"Please don't feel obligated to make conversation Stuart," he sighs, "I am perfectly comfortable with maintaining silent acquaintances."

"Yeah, I'm aware of that," Stu replies, and the corner of Sherlock's mouth lifts. At first he wasn't sure he'd be able to take to the bumbling, shy nurse, but it turns out the man has a blunt streak, and he appreciates that. "Just don't see why you should feel like you gotta sit away from us all. I mean, Molly said you and John still live together – "

"No, thank you," Sherlock interrupts, eager to have Stu out of the way as quickly as possible so he can implement his plan. _Operation Make John Remember How Much He Loves You_, a voice that sounds incredibly like the doctor's supplies helpfully in the back of his mind. Stu shakes his head, shrugging, and after paying returns to the booth with a tray full of drinks. The detective resists the urge to roll his eyes, lifting his glass to his lips.

"And what's this handsome man doing here all alone?" The words are almost a purr in his ear, like chocolate dipped in honey, and Sherlock sets his drink down without taking a sip: the brunette sinks onto the barstool beside him, a waft of expensive perfume slinking across the air like a breeze.

One look at her and he knows everything – the designer clothes to mask a poor background and low self-esteem, the breast implants, the troubled childhood. Disregarding her chest, he supposes he might find her attractive if he wasn't John-sexual, with her soft hourglass figure and sparkling green eyes. As it is, he couldn't be less interested. But that's not part of the plan. Leaning in, he thinks back to the Irene Adler days and the cupboard in his mind palace reserved for information regarding physical evidence of sexual attraction. It is all quickly dismissed; Sherlock flings open the door of the huge room dedicated to everything John Watson, and just the thought of Morning John, still dreaming with wild bedhair and smelling of sweat and sleep and his own warm, homely musk is enough to make the detective's pupils dilate and his pulse pick up. "Care to keep me company?" he asks in a voice an octave lower than normal. Sherlock has no real desire to spend a second longer in this woman's company, but he forces himself to consider the best way to initiate a kiss with a total stranger. Surely such a thing must happen, late at night when lonely clubbers are drunk and desperate for some human company. The woman exhales, and he counts the number of drinks she's had on her breath. In combination with her copious lip-biting, flushed cheeks and pupils blown black as night, he concludes that she would not at all be opposed to his suddenly taking an interest in her mouth. A slender, red-taloned hand comes out to press against his thigh as she leans closer.

"You bet, gorgeous," she replies, slurring ever-so-slightly. Sherlock is fairly certain his answering grimace comes off as a smile, deliberately glancing down at her crimson lips and back up to her eyes.

"Well, aren't I _lucky_?" He can't resist allowing a hint of sarcasm to creep into his tone, knowing that the woman won't notice as she does a full-body scan of him, feet to face, and he uses the split second this affords him to focus on his peripheral vision. John is watching. Perfect.

Across the room, Stu is just settling back into his seat and moving to give Molly a kiss when there's a strange noise from his left. Something somewhere between a sharp intake of breath and a choke, it's sudden and loud enough to make him look around after the barest brush of lips, half-expecting to have to perform the Heimlich on somebody. Apparently he's not the only one instantly concerned, because Molly peers round too. Sally's head shoots up from where she'd been gazing down at her phone and even Sean's eyes lift, stilling the straw he was swirling in his drink. "John?" Molly asks softly, almost completely drowned out by a burst of bone-jarring bass and synth. The doctor is swallowing convulsively, his face slowly draining of colour. His eyes are fixed on some point on the other side of the room and for a moment Stu fears the glass gripped in the man's hand might shatter.

"John," Sally prompts, brow furrowing, before she follows his line of sight to whatever it is that has caught his attention. "Oh my _God_." Sherlock Holmes is still sitting at the bar where Stu left him, stubborn arse that he is (Molly was definitely right about that), only now the detective seems to be thoroughly exploring the inside of a young brunette's mouth. Granted she appears to have an iron grip on the collar of his purple silk button-up, but he is unmistakeably the one leading the kiss. Stu feels his own stomach somersault at the sight, because isn't Sherlock supposed to still be madly in love with John?

"I..." John begins shakily, sitting up and looking anywhere but at his friends, at his very preoccupied ex-lover. "I need some air – excuse me – " He grabs his jacket and slides out of his seat at the end of the booth in one movement, disappearing quickly into the crowd of dancing people and heading for the door. Greg attempts to intercept him as he and Sarah make their way back over, but John doesn't even notice them and brushes past without a word.

Moments later he bursts out onto the street, cold midnight air hitting him like a slap in the face. Shoving his arms into his jacket sleeves, John strides unsteadily along the pavement to the nearest bench, slumping down onto it with a huff of breath. His head drops and he hides his face in his hands and tries to remember how to breathe, to concentrate on making the stabbing pain in his chest go away. If he didn't know better he'd think he was having some kind of attack, because the rest of his body has gone strangely numb and he can't seem to control the trembling of his fingers. _Keep it together, Watson_, he tells himself, using the firm, authoritative tone he always reserved for new recruits in the field. _Don't fall apart now, after all this effort_. John gasps in a large lungful of air, letting it quiver behind his ribs for a few long seconds before releasing it. It doesn't do much to make him feel better, but it does lessen the worry that he might start hyperventilating. He saw it all, of course. Saw that woman approach Sherlock, watched them talk for all of two minutes, watched the detective wind a hand into her curls and close the gap and – and – he thinks he might be sick.

The only thing that stops John's lunch from coming up (he skipped dinner again, wasn't hungry, hardly ever is anymore) is the knowledge that although he did it intentionally, Sherlock didn't kiss that woman out of attraction. He did it because he knew John would see. Because he _wanted_ John to see. Anger rolls in the pit of his stomach, and then is extinguished by something colder, more clammy. There's a burning sensation behind his eyes. The look on Sherlock's face the other day, standing there in the middle of the Department...it nearly killed him on the spot, the doctor is sure of it. No matter how livid he is with the man, no matter how wounded or how betrayed he feels, John knows he'll never be able to stand seeing Sherlock hurt. He just doesn't have it in him, doesn't have the strength. Sherlock, on the other hand...this is a deliberate move on his part. Some kind of plan to entice a reaction out of the blogger, to get him to break down his own wall. John lets out a quiet, strangled noise into his hands, and is suddenly grateful for the general lack of concern spared by passing strangers. Doesn't Sherlock _understand_ that he built the wall for his own protection? To shield himself from shattering completely, which is what will happen if he ever confronts Sherlock about what he did, if he ever allows himself to truly feel every emotion waging war inside him. All that pain, all that anger – it would be enough to send him back to deep, dark places that he isn't strong enough to come back from anymore, isn't brave enough. The wall is the only thing keeping him safe. Doesn't Sherlock _see _that? _No, _a small voice answers. _No, of course he doesn't_.

Because how _can_ Sherlock understand when he doesn't know what it's like to watch the man you love stand _so _high up and tell you that it was all a lie, that he never loved you, never wanted you the way you wanted him? To live with that tiny, insistent niggle of doubt at the back of your mind, constantly, and hate yourself because this was the man you promised to always believe in _no matter what happens_, the man you adored more than anything else and you shouldn't ever doubt him, regardless of what he said, regardless of what the newspapers print and people whisper behind your back. Sherlock doesn't know how it feels to be sick to your stomach with guilt because it's _your fault_, you should have realised that your partner was ready to take his own life, should have recognised the signs. _You're a medical professional. You should have seen it all._ And then there's the shame. Gut-wrenching, lung-twisting shame at not being able to let go after three long, agonising years, like you're crazy, some kind of crackpot. And then more guilt, for going out on a date with a pretty blonde you met at work because you're just _so lonely_. More shame, because when you're kissing her or shagging her the only person that you can think of is your boyfriend who by the way is _dead_ and it's _your fault_ and not only are you crazy but you're also sick as fuck and this is how your life is going to be from now until the day you die, too. Sherlock can't possibly understand how any of that feels.

And in the end John didn't need to either, did he? Because it was all a lie. One giant fucking lie. A lie that he inadvertently involved kind, honest Mary in. A lie that he lost Harry over.

John can't lose himself as well. He just can't.

Back inside the club, Sally Donovan is on the warpath. She watches John disappear out of sight and her expression clouds over, and Anderson sits up in his seat. He knows Sally, and he knows the Frown of Doom. Though usually it's directed at him, during an argument or when he's trying to worm his way out of doing the dishes. The poor brunette getting off with Freak at the bar slides her hand further up his thigh and Sally announces, "That's it, I'm going over!"

"Sally – " Anderson begins, catching her fingers gently as she sets down her drink and gets up. But she easily shakes him off with a determined,

"Not now, Sean!" and proceeds to stalk over to the bar. She completely ignores Greg and Sarah, looking thoroughly confused and asking what happened; they're an unlikely group of friends, all being as different in nature as they are, but they were all connected to Holmes somehow, whether directly or by default, and after his 'death' they sort of just...fell in together. Mutual concern for Watson seemed to be a huge part of it.

Now, Sally is not a woman to be trifled with when she's pissed off about something, let alone when she's had a few drinks to boot. So when she reaches the detective and the brunette, and she folds her arms and clears her throat, she expects the woman to beat it. Instead she breaks the kiss, peering up at Sally from under her false lashes, and says, "Sorry honey, finders keepers." Luckily for her Sherlock decides to intervene before heads can roll, so to speak.

"I'm gay," he lies, having yet to find any other man but John attractive. Or woman, for that matter. The brunette lets go of him immediately, green eyes going wide.

"You're _what_?"

"Gay," Sherlock repeats with a wry smile, "and very bored. You can leave now." Looking from him to Sally and back again, utterly bewildered, the brunette seems to have trouble forming words.

"I – I – "

"You heard him," Sally says, sticking her chin out. "Scram, princess." The woman is gone in seconds.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmurs, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and pulling a face. "That was dreadf – " He doesn't get to finish his sentence, because Sally smacks him on the arm with her clutch bag. Hard enough to shut him up and make his forehead crease, if not to hurt.

"What the hell are you playing at?!" she demands in dangerously low tones, narrowing her eyes. Sherlock straightens his back, frown deepening as he reaches for his glass.

"I am attempting to remind John of how he feels for me," he answers, as if this should be painfully obvious, "so that he'll break up with Mary and we can work on going b – "Once again his words are cut off by a smack of Sally's purse. "Will you stop doing that?" he hisses, rubbing at his arm, but Sally ignores him.

"You arse!" she half-growls, fighting to keep her voice quiet. "Do you _really_ think he needs _reminding _of how he feels? Are you that bloody ignorant?" Her anger is dampened a fraction when she realises that, yes, he probably is – if what she's heard about the genius is true and John really was his first ever relationship, then Sherlock Holmes _would_ be childishly naive about these things, wouldn't know what to do, and for some reason that thought makes a pang of something like pity tug in her chest. She tries to push it to one side and continues. "I don't think a single day has gone by in the last three years that John hasn't thought about it," she says passionately. "He was such a mess, Sherlock, he was all over the place – "

"I know that, Donovan – " the detective interrupts, irritated, but is cut short himself.

"No," Sally tells him firmly, "I don't think you do." She slips onto the vacated barstool, holding his gaze fiercely all the while. "He went through angry phases, reclusive phases – wouldn't leave the flat for weeks at a time, until Greg forcibly dragged him to the Surgery or the pub or the Yard. Some days he'd seem perfectly fine, and then fifteen minutes later he'd burst into tears at a crime scene and we'd all realise that no, he really wasn't fine, not without you." Sherlock has the good grace to look ashamed, turning his face away from her as his stomach twists painfully, but that's not all Sally has to say. "Greg told me John had a huge fight with his sister – Heather or Hayley or whatever – about a year ago. She said something about you being a fake and John went nuts and they haven't spoken since. Did you know that?" Sherlock gives the most minute shake of his head, a muscle jumping as his jaw tightens and he is forced to admit,

"No, I didn't." He makes a mental note to be extra rude to dear old Harry next time he sees her, because although he quite frankly doesn't give a damn what she thinks of him, hurting John is completely unacceptable. _Hasn't stopped you_, the doctor's voice pipes up again, and he tells it to be quiet.

"He's smiled so much more in the last month, with Mary. She's really not a bad person – you might even like her if you gave her a chance. Believe me, Sherlock," Sally adds, voice softening a touch at the look on the detective's face, "I want to see you and John back together as much as the next person..." Intense, sharp grey eyes fix on her then, scrutinising, and she briefly wonders how many times John must have been on the receiving end of such a look. "I know we've...had our differences," she confesses, because she'd be lying if she said she'd never partly blamed herself for Sherlock's 'suicide', "but that was then, and this is now." She clears her throat, fiddles with her bag in her lap. Damn, that look is unnerving. "Mary is John's safety net, Sherlock. The silent treatment, ignoring you – it's not because he's forgotten how he feels, it's _because of_ how he feels. It's all a defence mechanism, and watching you get off with some random bimbo in a bar is not going to help you get through to him." She tilts her head to one side, thinking. "Have you tried simply _asking_ for his attention? Have you tried asking for him to just_ talk_ to you?" Swallowing, Sherlock gives another shake of his head. No. Novice that he is when it comes to emotional human interaction, he hadn't even thought of that. "Well, maybe you should," Sally concludes, getting up. The detective doesn't reply. She takes that to mean the conversation is over. "I don't know if John's coming back in, but...you can still join us, if you like." Sally briefly considers patting him on the shoulder, or something equally normal in a situation like this, but decides against it at the last minute. Instead she just nods, and walks away.

At the same time, John rubs at his face with his hands and sits up, swiping at a few stray tears and coughing lightly to recover his voice. If Sherlock is determined to play silly games and kiss strangers, then fine. But John wants no part of it. There's a door deep inside him that's going to stay locked, no matter how hard the consulting detective bangs on it or rattles the hinges. Because if it opens, he knows he won't be able to control – or survive – what comes out. Standing, John Watson squares his shoulders, brushes at his eyes one more time, and takes a deep breath. _For the sake of your sanity, John. _And then he walks back into the club. His heart beats erratically as he squeezes his way through the throngs of people, but he keeps his head up and his eyes fixed on his destination, until he sinks back into his seat at the booth with a weak smile and quiet apology. Only once the conversation has been resumed and he has his drink back in his hand does he dare to look up, over at the bar, and finds a pair of steely-grey eyes staring back at him.

He holds them, and wishes that none of this had ever happened.

x

_Oh my God, that chapter was a toughie. It's two days late and I apologise for that - my brain went into some kind of writing meltdown and wouldn't let me write anything, but I sat at this for 11 hours today and got it done, FINALLY. Phew. I think part of the reason I struggled with it was I hated the idea of Sherlock kissing someone Not John *wrinkles nose*. I can assure you, he won't be kissing any more random women in this story. Also, the next few chapters will include a lot more John/Sherlock interaction :) The club is supposed to be just your generic club, really. I've also known people to randomly get off with each other while I've been in bars, so I figured it's not too outrageous an idea for Sherlock (who, let's face it, is kind of socially inept) to run with._

_Some of you've probably noticed that I've slipped a few of my little headcanons in here - like Stuart, who also appears in my other Johnlock story Take My Hand as a mechanic. Anderson's left his wife to be with Sally and his first name is Sean, and Greg and Sarah are together...it's just how I like to imagine things going after The Fall._

_The Purple Shirt of Sex made an appearance! *swoons* __God, I missed you guys. Thank you for all your lovely reviews, as always, I'd be lost without you!_

_Chapter Five - "Inappropriate" will be up on Tuesday. Don't forget you can always follow me on twitter ( emily_mulford) for updates, or just a hello! _


	5. Inappropriate

**Inappropriate**

xxxx

x

"Crime of passion." The announcement is calm, detached; as coolly indifferent as the occupied, sterilised surface of Molly's autopsy table. "She was having an affair, with somebody older than her partner, judging by the occasional grey hair lingering on her clothing. Short, therefore most likely male, and located in areas most improper for anyone other than a romantic interest or physician to be." Sherlock dashes around the table with movements so practiced that it's almost a dance. The victim in their latest case is a thirty-two year old wedding planner, lying there utterly lifeless and silent as the detective scrutinises her designer suit, inspects the undersides of her false nails through his pocket microscope. "A client," he mutters under his breath. Molly isn't quite sure whether or not he's talking to himself, so she says nothing, standing out of the way with her arms folded and chewing her lip. A month after his return from the 'dead', having Sherlock Holmes whirling around the morgue examining corpses – instead of chasing dangerous criminals across the globe – is finally starting to feel normal again.

Not so normal is the heavy, suffocating tension filling the room.

Every now and then Molly gives a little nod of her head and sneaks glances out of the corner of her eye at John, trying not to show the awkwardness she feels. The doctor's face is set in a perfectly emotionless mask, mirroring her position a few feet away. He hasn't said a single word since he and Sherlock arrived half an hour ago, alerted to the new case by Greg only minutes before. Not a word. Not a sound. All he's done is stand there in silence and watch as Sherlock carries out his observations; it's incredibly unnerving, enough to make Molly fidget uncomfortably on the spot. This isn't the John Watson she knows. It isn't any of the John Watsons she knows, frankly. Not Old John, who verbally sparred with the detective _constantly_ and who publicly rewarded particularly impressive deductions with enthusiastic kisses. Not Broken John, in turns angry and tearful, worrying them all sick that he was going to make himself seriously ill, might try and do something reckless or stupid. Not New John, with his faltering smiles but not-so-weak laughter, at least when Mary is present, and his distinct lack of honest-to-God sobbing breakdowns. No, Molly doesn't recognise this man at all. And it frightens her.

Sherlock peers at the large dent in the side of the woman's skull, blackened blood matted in her blonde hair. He touches the area lightly with his gloved fingertips. "Skull fragments...blunt force trauma. The murder weapon was a bedside lamp, antique..." Trailing off, he tries to piece the story together. Young woman has an affair with a much older man whilst planning his wedding to another woman, probably around her own age. All the while she keeps this secret from her long-term partner – five, six years, her first time doing anything like this but things haven't been going so well in paradise of late. Until one day he finds out, and in a rage he grabs the closest heavy object he can reach and, well...one hit was enough. Only this explanation doesn't quite sit right with the detective. There was something more than just anger involved here, something more than plain old jealousy. A thrill of excitement rolls through Sherlock's chest. What is he missing? What has he not seen?

Straightening up, his forehead scrunches as he scans the victim's face. Chalky, eye makeup smudged...Leaning closer, his sharp grey eyes narrow, zeroing in. The woman hadn't been wearing lipstick, but there is an unusual, faint purplish-pink bloom across her lips, contrasting greatly with the colourlessness of the rest of her mouth. He'd dismissed it as some kind of lipgloss at first, but as he stares it becomes clear that that is not the case: it's bruising, literal bruising, the same as if she'd banged an elbow against a desk edge, or that he himself sometimes obtained around the hips after an especially rough night in bed with John. "This woman's lips are bruised," he says aloud, for the benefit of his audience. John remains as blank as ever, but Molly instantly perks up, interested.

"_Bruised_?" she repeats, frowning. The pathologist inches forwards to get a better look. "You mean, like she was attacked?" Molly asks, then clarifies, "Y'know, punched in the face before she was...y'know. Hit with the lamp?" Shaking his head, Sherlock lifts his pocket microscope to get a closer look.

_No, most definitely not,_ he replies silently. _These bruises are the result of extended exposure to extreme pressure. _Her killer-slash-boyfriend may have attempted to subdue her, and upon being unable to do so struck her across the left temple, resulting in her death. But this thought has barely had time to form before it is dismissed – the palm of a hand would have left distinctive bruising around her mouth, not just across her lips. Besides, that would indicate a struggle; there is no skin under her nails, so she didn't scratch him, and the skin of her neck, face and wrists is unblemished. No bruises, no marks. No evidence at all, in fact, to suggest that she was pinned or held down in any way. _As if she allowed it to happen willingly_, Sherlock notes. And then an idea strikes him like lightning, and his eyes widen in realisation. _A kiss. Of course. _Before he caved her head in, he kissed her one last time with force, and she didn't struggle because she was too busy returning the kiss, unaware that these would be her last few seconds alive. It all makes perfect sense. In theory. But in reality? He has kissed with passion before, and been kissed the same way; but neither he nor John had ever been left with the same purplish-pink marks afterwards. Is it possible for that to happen? Is it feasible? If he and John were still together, he would seize the doctor this very instant to find out for himself. However, since the only response he's had from John in the past few weeks has been a blunt, "Yes," when he asked if the blogger would accompany him on the case this morning, that option is no longer available to him.

Or is it?

Sherlock's heart starts to race at the prospect. After his conversation with Donovan at the club the other night he'd tried doing what she suggested, and practically implored John to just sit down and talk to him, explain his feelings, tell him what he wants to do. He was blanked every single time, as if he'd never even spoken at all. He'd asked about the case more out of growing habit than actual belief that John would want to come. But the doctor's acceptance is a good sign. A sign of willingness. And Sally did say that Sherlock should _ask_ before acting..._What's the worst that could happen? John could ignore you. John could outright reject you. You have nothing to lose just by inquiring._

Lost in his own thoughts, John is giving himself a pat on the back for today's achievements: speaking directly to Sherlock and reliving an aspect of their old life without having a breakdown. He still feels uneasy, distrustful of himself, as though at any minute he could lose it – but this is something. This is progress. If he can keep going like this, if he can push it just a little bit further every time, then maybe one day he'll be able to converse and work with the detective comfortably. They will never have to discuss what happened, or how things changed in the interval between then and now. They can go right back to how they were at the very beginning. Flatmates. Never quite friends again, no...John isn't sure he'll ever be strong enough to cope with that. But flatmates. Acquaintances. He could do that. He can do that.

All of this goes out of the window the moment Sherlock opens his mouth and says, "John, I need you to kiss me."

Jaw dropping, John's eyes shoot up and meet Sherlock's. The disbelieving, _What did you just say?!_ is obvious in his gaze, and somewhere in the back of his mind it registers that Molly is staring at the genius too, lips parted, caught somewhere between horror and shock.

"I believe the bruises may have been caused by an extremely forceful kiss," Sherlock explains, trying to retain a calm facade even though his palms are beginning to sweat. "But I am not entirely sure that this is possible, and so I need to conduct an experiment to find out for sure. Will you help me?" Of course, he doesn't at all expect that John will say yes. The man is not in a good place emotionally, mentally, and if anything kissing one another would be detrimental to his attempts to move on. But Sherlock _has_ to ask. He has to make sure that John knows the detective still wants to kiss him, despite the brunette, despite their...situation.

The doctor swallows, unable to speak. _How could he...how dare he...I've made it clear enough that I don't want..._and then he has to stop, because he _does_, God, he does, and – _no. No, no no no no. Don't let the door open, John, don't let it, don't you dare – _he can feel a cold prickle of panic start to creep up his spine, growing until it threatens to engulf him in waves _I can't want it he knows I can't do it he knows how could he ask it's not fair I can't_ –

Throat convulsing, John goes suddenly taut, rigid. He's shaking as much from anger as from fear. Those once warm, loving blue eyes darken along with the rest of his features, and his arms unfold, hands clenched into fists, and he growls, "_Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes_," and then he turns and walks out, slamming the door behind him.

Molly is speechless.

Sherlock sighs deeply, deflating. They stand there in absolute silence for one long, horrible minute, before Sherlock finally takes a deep breath, and addresses her very matter-of-factly. "Molly, I'll need you to help me, instead." The pathologist's head whips round to face him so fast she almost gives herself whiplash.

"Uh, _no_," she almost chokes out, unable to quite believe what he's asking.

"Why not?" he huffs, pouting. "It's essential that I _know _– "

"I'm not kissing you, Sherlock," Molly holds up her hand to interrupt him, raising an eyebrow as she moves over to the corpse on her autopsy table, just about ready to shoo the detective out. She has a lunch break date with Stu and he'll be down here any second now. "And quite frankly, I don't think my boyfriend would approve either." Molly realises a moment too late that she should have stuck to a simple _no_ – Sherlock is already yanking open the door and disappearing into the hallway, calling,

"Stuart! I must borrow Molly for an experiment involving kissing!"

x

_Sorry it's a little bit late tonight guys, but better late than never! Thank you all so much for the reviews for the last chapter, you're all wonderful!_

_It occurred to me earlier just how difficult it is to write Sherlock...because he's not just the Sherlock from the TV series, he's the Sherlock that John helped to mold, helped to humanise, through out A Kiss With The Air...and he's also the Sherlock that spent three years away from John's humanising influence. He's slipped back into a few bad habits, hasn't he? Poor bloke. I promise I'll try not to torture him (or John) for too much longer._

_Chapter Six: "Habitual" - coming Thursday._


	6. Habitual

**Habitual**

xxxx

x

John refuses to join him on cases after that, no matter how politely Sherlock asks. The doctor also refuses to spend more than ten minutes alone in the same space as his ex-partner, often disappearing out of the flat before Sherlock emerges from his room – not that he actually sleeps, but rather that staying in there as much as possible makes for less awkwardness and fewer tense encounters – and returning late at night, bypassing 221B entirely to go straight upstairs to bed. The silence continues, of course. It's as though they're strangers, nothing but two ships passing in the night, and sometimes Sherlock feels the sudden need to press fingertips against his own stomach, arms, face, to make sure that he really isn't some kind of lingering spirit. _A ridiculous notion_, the genius automaton within him scolds, but he still catches himself giving his skin experimental pinches now and then. _Just to be sure_.

John is angry with him. That much is obvious; clearly Sherlock crossed some kind of invisible boundary, and he makes a solid promise to himself not to inquire after a kiss again. Physical contact, it appears, is a step too far. The detective supposes that he should feel guilty for pushing John, even gently, before he was ready for such a thing, but he finds that he doesn't. He would never have done it if he believed it would actually _harm_ the man, which it hasn't. And he will never, ever apologise for loving his blogger enough to want to save them. Save what they once had. Could have. But John, with his silent treatment, cold shoulder and self-inflicted emotional isolation, doesn't seem to want to openly acknowledge that he wants the same thing (because he _must_ want it, too, Sherlock can't fathom or even begin to consider the idea that he may not). Everything the detective tries to do is wrong, every action he takes a failure and every effort made rebuffed. And he has no plan for this kind of situation. He hadn't expected John's state to have deteriorated like this; Mycroft couldn't contact him with updates, and he was out of the country tracking down criminals. No doubt he could have found a way to keep an eye on the doctor if he'd put his mind to it, but if he's honest with himself, a large part of him didn't want to know. Didn't want to hear about John finding someone else, a new flatmate, a new love. Didn't want to witness (however indirectly) John moving on with his life, replacing him. No longer needing him.

He has no solution, and no desire to anger his blogger more greatly with further naive, bumbling mistakes. So until he can formulate a new plan, Sherlock escapes the only way he knows how: the work. The work that he swore, moments before he fell, was more important than the man he loves.

Lestrade comes to him with a rather vicious murder and he takes it. Alone. The case turns out to be delightfully intriguing; all the makings of an attack by an experienced killer, someone clever enough to leave absolutely no DNA evidence behind after cutting the throat of a middle-aged man (_stockbroker, married, two children, having an affair_) and leaving him nude in the back room of a deserted brothel. He pulls a startlingly short list of deductions from the crime scene, which alarms everyone at the Yard considerably – but as far as the consulting detective is concerned, it's fascinating. He throws himself into it, stops sleeping, stops eating. Sherlock starts spending nights at the Yard with Donovan and Anderson, Lestrade and the other officers on the case, going over the facts, checking all possible leads. Then another body shows up. Young woman, throat cut with a smooth-bladed hunting knife, posed like a doll in the window of a high-end retailer, and Sherlock begins to think they may have another serial killer on their hands. It's practically Christmas.

Lestrade is the one who makes sure that Sherlock eats, threatening to withhold all future case information from him unless he has some toast here, some takeout there. Ten minute power naps every two hours become mandatory, and although the genius protests at first he's out like a light the moment he flops onto the small sofa in Greg's office. Sally and Sean roll their eyes at the Detective Inspector for fussing so much, but he continues to worry. Donovan may be trying to pretend that she hasn't softened towards the man since his return, but Sherlock Holmes _is_ their friend, and of course Greg's going to be concerned. John was always the one to do all this. John was the one who looked after Sherlock when he became completely engrossed in a case, was the one who kept him alive and ensured that his basic requirements didn't go ignored (which they would do, if Sherlock had his way). John was always the one who cared for the detective the most out of all of them, for obvious reasons, and he's the one who's head over heels for him...isn't he? Greg asks himself the question every time he practically has to force a cup of tea or a biscuit on Sherlock, or watches him fall asleep at a microscope. What the man did in faking his own death was...pretty bad, but he did it to protect them all. It's not as if he deliberately wanted to cause them pain, as if he hasn't suffered himself, as if it wasn't a sacrifice. John's defences may be made of steel, but his heart sure as hell isn't, and it worries Greg that the doctor seems to be so utterly detached from Sherlock Holmes when he was once so obviously, painfully, sickeningly in love with him. But then there's a third body, and he doesn't have any time to ponder it further. All he knows for certain is that the detective is not dead, a fact he's very grateful for, and that right now it's his job to keep him that way. Until one of the pair is at risk of making a permanent mistake or is in need of a serious kick up the arse, everything else is none of his business.

Sherlock hurts. He hurts desperately, because all he wants is John but the doctor won't speak to him, won't acknowledge him, won't bloody _listen_ and it's agony beyond anything he ever could have imagined. So he escapes into the case. He loses himself totally in crime scenes and a growing body count and doesn't notice the detrimental effect it has on his health. He hides inside his own mind. It hurts less there.

But not for long.

Almost three weeks since the 'incident' in the morgue, Sherlock is so wrapped up in the case (and so used to spending more time out of the flat than in it) that he forgets, just for a moment, everything that has happened between himself and his blogger. Lestrade makes him go home and sleep in his own bed for a night, and in the morning, after a long shower and a change of clothes – pyjamas, this case requires a day in his mind palace – he finds he feels very refreshed. Good as new. Clear-headed. But in the face of these feelings he forgets, and when he walks out into the kitchen at half past eleven to find John standing at the sink washing up, he does what he spent over a year doing every morning in 221B. Sherlock moves towards the shelves above John's head to get a mug. As he reaches up to grab one he touches his other hand lightly to the doctor's hip over his jeans and at the same time, without thinking, dips his head to press a kiss against the back of John's neck. It's a completely innocent gesture, a habit, their daily morning ritual...once upon a time. But as soon as his lips and fingers make contact there's a loud _smash!_ and a sharp intake of breath, and then nothing but a stunned, speechless silence. John stands, chest heaving, on the other side of the room, having flinched away and recoiled in the blink of an eye. The ceramic cup he was drying is now in pieces on the floor next to the tea towel.

Sherlock stares at him, mouth hanging slightly open. The air between them has never felt so thick.

After a minute, John becomes distantly aware that he is trembling. Badly. His arms hang limply at his sides, breaths leaving him in shallow, rattling gasps, adrenaline shaking him to the core. _He touched me_, his brain is quietly screaming. _He kissed me. He touched me._ A big, red, neon stop sign is flashing _get away don't do that not good don't want_. Beneath it, a bright green go sign urges _yes yes do that again felt good want missed please._ His tongue is too dry to say a word even as his eyes seem determined to water, _pathetic, John, really, so much for 'Captain'_, wide and full of every emotion playing itself out inside him. _He touched me. He kissed me._ Sherlock stares right into those familiar blue orbs and sees no anger. Sees no offense. Instead he thinks he might drown in such honest, overwhelming pain, and die from terror pure enough to stop his racing heart.

"I...I didn't – didn't mean – " he begins, fumbling over his words as they tumble out. "I don't know – what came over me – " Licking his lip in an unconscious imitation of his beloved, Sherlock lowers his hand, moving slowly as though John is some kind of frightened, wounded animal. _But oh, he is. He is._ "I'm sorry," he murmurs, backing up a step, silently begging the doctor not to leave, not to run from him. "I'm sorry." But it's too late. Chaos is wreaking itself upon John's body just as it is his mind and _fight or flight fight or flight _is already coursing through his veins and his decision is made before he can think about anything else.

Retreating a few feet, he pulls quickly away from the detective, and when his back hits the kitchen table he turns and strides across the room on watery legs, wrenches open the door leading directly onto the landing and closes it swiftly behind him. He doesn't leave the building. Instead, he half-sits half-collapses onto the bottom step of the stairs going up to his room. John wraps numb arms around his middle, and huffs out an unsteady breath. _Fuck._

_He touched me. He kissed me._

John can feel the crack in his wall if it were real, physical, something he could reach out and press his shaking fingers to. Putting some space between himself and Sherlock is helping, but barely; he feels like a ship rocked by a tumultuous storm as his insides liquefy, and not in the good way. At least, not entirely: a sick, queasy feeling squeezes his stomach, light-headed and dazed. He feels like he could throw up or dissolve into a pile of petrified goo on the floor.

But he also burns. Flutters somewhere in the very pit of his belly.

_He touched me. He kissed me._

_And it felt so good._

_So terrifying._

He never knew it was possible for one person to feel both icy cold and stiflingly hot at the same time. Such a simple action. So much damage to his defences, damage that he can't afford to worsen.

Sherlock watches the door for some time, brain ticking over in rhythm with his calming pulse. It was an accident. He would never have...not intentionally, not deliberately...And that fear. That _fear_. For the first time, it occurs to Sherlock that anger and hurt aren't the sole motivators behind the blogger's supposed detachment. John is afraid of him. The realisation twists inside his chest, chill and aching, because it's the detective's job to _protect_ John, keep him safe no matter the cost. And then, before he can stop himself, Sherlock sees the fear and the anger and the hurt and the silence and the stone cold avoidance and he sees a picture, a full picture, a possibility out of the depths of his very worst nightmare:

Perhaps John _doesn't_ want him anymore.

x

_Oh, gosh, I'm sorry if I've given you feels. Only a few more angsty chapters to go, and then it'll start to ease off a bit. John's making progress; he's no longer running a mile, at least. All your reviews for the last chapter have been absolutely wonderful (as always), you're really all too good to me!_

_If you'd like to be even more wonderful, I've just put up a poll on my profile page asking if anyone would be interested in a Sherlock/Star Trek AU multichapter crossover if I were to write one. If you've got a couple of seconds to spare, could you please pop over and let me know Yay or Nay? :) I have a lot of ideas, but don't want to get really into writing it if I won't have an audience as I do have a lot going on (but I love you guys to much to leave you). It'll be Johnlock, obviously, plus another ship that will be prominant (I'm not sure if it's been done before or if I'm the first, but I'll leave it a surprise). Or, alternatively, just let me know in a review :) Thanks again, lovelies._

_Chapter Seven: "Unwanted" - coming Saturday!_


	7. Unwanted

**Unwanted**

xxxx

x

Her words are soft. _I really am sorry._ Her reasoning is sound. _He might not be what you want, but he's what you need. Not me. _John supposes he should have seen this coming: despite his best efforts not to bring his issues into their relationship, even someone as patient and understanding as Mary was bound to reach their limit eventually. She's always known the exact nature of his previous partnership with Sherlock, and she takes his hand and tells him that it's because underneath the armour he wears John still feels something for the detective, otherwise he would have been able to forgive him and move on by now. That it's time for him to face the music, that he can't go on like this, as if he didn't once subconsciously commit himself to Sherlock Holmes for the rest of his life. John swallows and avoids her gaze and pretends that none of it is true. It's a lie that loses effectiveness when he's sitting in the kitchen of 221B, at the end of the table strictly prohibited from housing experiments of any kind. Fingers tangled in his hair, he sighs out a shuddery breath towards the surface, the cup of tea next to his elbow long since gone cold.

Out of everything, Mary was the one refuge – the one _distraction_ – that he'd been sure would last indefinitely. She's a realist, down-to-Earth, a force to which he believed he could anchor himself so that he wouldn't drift away. Wouldn't lose himself again. But she's also right. Absolutely, undeniably, gut-wrenchingly right about everything. There's only one such force strong enough, right enough, to stop John Watson from slipping out of orbit forever. It makes him tremble, inside and out, to even consider...but it's true.

John can feel himself starting to fragment, splintering around the edges with every passing second. He's been treading a very thin, very wobbly line ever since Sherlock came back, but this threatens to tip him over, to send him spiralling back down into the darkness once again. The foundations of his wall are cracking. After all the time and effort he's put into indifferent silences, careful avoidance of any and all possible external triggers, John never thought that his defences would begin to crumble from the inside. He tugs at his hair in fistfuls out of sheer bitter frustration: at the world, at a certain consulting detective, at his own _humiliating _weakness. He feels so utterly out of control that it makes him sick with fear, fear of his feelings, his thoughts, his wounds. Fear that the damage caused by The Fall and three desolate, aching years will destroy him completely. John does..._did_ genuinely care for Mary, but now that she's not going to be there to help him forget...his shoulders shake, slumped over the kitchen table.

That's where Sherlock finds him, not very long afterwards. Slinking quietly into the flat after a long day on a case with Lestrade (young man, nightclub owner, throat cut, arranged with painstaking precision behind the bar), the detective pauses only to slip off his Belstaff and hang it up on the peg before breezing into the kitchen. Where he stops, instantly, by the doorway. He's so used to living inside his head now – just like Before, Before a certain ex-army doctor limped into his life – that his initial reaction to the sight of slouched, silent John remains internal. His heart flutters in concern, his breath hitching a little, but it's a few moments or so until he decides this would be an appropriate situation in which to address the man aloud. "What's happened?" he asks, and the sharp tone of his voice, deliberately unsympathetic so as to avoid incurring John's wrath, sounds wrong and cold even to his own ears. But he knows better than to think he can just pull out a chair and wrap John in his arms, comfort him the way he once did. Sherlock doesn't really expect to be deigned with a response, so it's a struggle to hide his surprise when the doctor sits up in his seat and lifts his head to meet his ex-lover's gaze. Sherlock experiences the odd sensation of the bottom dropping out of his stomach; John's eyes are tinged pink.

"Mary," comes John's answer, voice rough in a way that makes Sherlock's chest hurt and his empty arms feel useless. "She dumped me." Deep blue eyes boring into silvery grey, a muscle tightens in the blogger's jaw. "But of course, you'll be pleased to hear that," he says. The words sound foreign coming from his mouth, so tight and clipped, as if they could break glass. Or bone. Sherlock is still processing them as John pushes back from the table and snatches up his full cup, practically stalking over to the worksurface to tip the contents down the sink.

"I..." the detective begins, trailing off. There's a clink and a clatter and he distantly suspects that the cup is now in pieces by the plughole. _Mary. She dumped me._ It's like the lifting of a thick fog, the relief of a heavy burden. _No more girlfriend,_ is his first thought. _No more external barriers,_ is his second. Without Mary, the only obstacle standing in the way of John's recovery is the man himself. And he just spoke to his flatmate of his own free will. Thirteen words. Three sentences in reply to a verbal prompt. For the first time in over three years...they're _conversing._ Sherlock struggles to contain the thrill of joy and excitement that rolls through him. _Progress, at last!_ "John – " he tries again, eager to continue this development while he has the chance, but is abruptly cut off.

"No!" the doctor snaps, turning away from the counter to glare at Sherlock as if it is somehow all his fault. Which, perhaps, it is. "I don't want to hear it. I don't want your fake _sympathy_ or your _pity_ or a damn lecture so just _don't_. _Say_. _A word_." Sherlock's mouth closes. He blinks. He isn't even sure what it was that he was going to say. Certainly none of the above: he's not the type to pretend to be sorry, he has neither the time nor the patience for it, and even he can see that being condescending is more likely to earn him a bloody nose than a shred of appreciation. No, he wouldn't have wasted his breath on any of that. Maybe all he'd intended to say was his blogger's name. Just, _John_. Maybe, _John, I'm still here_. Maybe, _John, I love you._ But the older man is still glaring at him, eyes turned hard under lowered brows, and Sherlock swallows. He waits for the silence to be broken. He's getting very good at waiting.

_Say something anything anything at all just speak so that I know you haven't shut me out not again not this time – _

John's whole body is like a tightly coiled spring, ready to snap at the mere sight of the genius he once swore he could never stay angry with, could never be the target of his resentment. Once, he promised himself that he would never, ever hurt Sherlock Holmes as long as he lived. Now it's the only thing he wants to do. To lash out, make the detective feel just a fraction of his pain, make him understand just how fucking much it _hurts_. _Promise me that you'll always believe. _His nerves are snapping and breaking one by one. _No matter where I go. No matter what I do. _John's throat grows tight. His voice shakes as it chokes out around the sudden obstruction. "Why couldn't you just stay away?" he asks hoarsely, hands curling into fists, and the question is so honest, so desperate, that Sherlock visibly flinches. A knife to the ribcage would have been less painful, he decides, heart thumping and throat constricting, because he can handle cold treatment and verbal abuse and he'd gladly lie down and let John beat him to a pulp if it would help, but the one idea that he simply _cannot cope with_, that's been haunting him since the accidental kiss, is that his blogger would rather he _were_ dead. Because what is he, if John doesn't want him? Who is he, but a lonely, high-functioning sociopath, if John Watson doesn't love him? He _needs_ John. If not his affection, Sherlock needs his presence, at his side, always. To keep him grounded, to keep him human. Safe from the danger nights, from the deafening noise of his own mind. He needs John's stability, his sarcasm and his good heart, his insults, his jokes, his perfect cups of tea and his patience and his wonderfully ugly jumpers. He is lost without his blogger, in so many more ways than one.

"If you'd just _stayed away_," the doctor continues. His vision is growing blurry, but it's fury that bubbles like poison beneath the surface. "Things wouldn't be so fucked up. _I _wouldn't be like _this_ – " His voice breaks on the word and he tears his eyes away, staring down at the floor with an intensity that practically screams betrayal and anguish. The muscle jumps in his jaw and he swallows, and Sherlock isn't sure if he can speak at all but he needs to try, before he suffocates.

"John, I never meant – "

"_But you did_," John interrupts, loudly. "You _never meant_ to hurt me but _you did_, you never meant for this to happen but _it did_ and I can't just get over it, Sherlock!"

"Perhaps if you'd stop shutting me out then you'd be able to try!" the detective shouts back, frustration taking over his senses as a frown invades his features. John's head shoots up, and he practically _growls _out,

"_Don't you dare – _"

"I _do _dare!" Sherlock cries with a wild gesture of his hand, finally losing his patience under the sting of John's horrible words. "It's about bloody time you let me in and told me how to _fix this_ because I don't know what else to do, John! I have had _enough_ of trying so hard to get through to you when all you do is push me away or act as if I don't exist!" John's face is turning red, fists clenched tight enough to make his knuckles turn white. He rocks back on his heels for a second before lunging forward a few steps, halting in the middle of the room.

"What else do you expect me to do?!" he yells, so angry that it's almost frightening. "I _buried_ you, Sherlock Holmes! I _mourned _you! I spent all these years _on my own _because _no one_ understood what it was like, _no one_, so I think I'm bloody well entitled to act how I see fit when you _come back from the dead_ – !" Sherlock careers forward at this, too, every muscle in his too-thin body taut to breaking point.

"I've been back for two months!" The baritone rumble is like thunder, deep and booming in the void of their flat. A lesser man than Captain Watson would shrink away. "_Two months_! You're acting like this because you don't want to face the truth, hiding behind _Mary_, hiding behind your excuses! You're _running_, that's what you're doing, but I'll tell you something – the John Watson that _I _knew would _never_ have been such a _coward_!"

Something snaps in John, then. The invisible force holding him back suddenly vanishes and he's across the room, positively shaking with emotion, and Sherlock doesn't wait for the man to hit him, doesn't wait for a punch or a slap or a knee. The moment that John is within his reach Sherlock grabs for him, a handful of white cable-knit and another handful of grey-blonde hair and he pulls the doctor _close _ducks his head tilts John's chin up –

– and kisses him full on the mouth.

And it's Heaven. Complete and utter Heaven for the split second before a fist collides with his face.

x

_A day late; I apologise. Yesterday was a draining day for me for personal reason, but - onwards and upwards, as they say! I hope this update was worth the wait. This story's turning out quite different from what I planned, but I like it. It's keeping me on my feet. Next chapter, I'll be tipping John over the edge, and from there everything will change. Thank you all so much for the reviews for the last chapter! It's always great to see new usernames, and I love seeing the regulars stop by :) You guys are awesome._

_Also, thanks for the feedback regarding the Sherlock/Star Trek AU crossover! I'll keep the poll up on my profile until the end of this fic, but so far general consensus seems to be DO IT. It is now definitely on the cards!_

_Chapter Eight: "Honest" - coming Tuesday!_


	8. Honest

**Honest**

xxxx

x

For the first time since he fell from the roof of St Bart's, Sherlock Holmes feels truly alive. He's not sure where the sudden need to kiss John came from, to erase that livid frown and drain away his fury, but oh, _God_ – the instant he feels the doctor's lips on his (_so soft so warm so familiar_) fire erupts in his blood, heartbeat stopping and then picking up again as a thunderous roar in his eardrums. _Good God John I'd forgotten the feel the sweetness of you how how did I let myself forget_? Details that he hadn't deleted, had stored away but still failed to accurately replicate in his imagination, alone under dirty hotel sheets with gauze holding his broken skin together and no such physical remedy for his heart. Warmth prickles down his spine to his toes and up to the ends of his curls, and he exhales sharply through his nose, because of all the things to die for it would be this, _was_ this, will always be this.

It all takes just one long, endless second for him to process. Then their lips part with a soft, wet sound, and before he can follow after John's mouth a sudden spike of pain clouds his mind as the doctor lands an expert blow to his cheek. Sherlock staggers back a few steps into the living room under the force of the punch, a hand coming up to touch his face instinctively, eyes watering. But he barely has time to think about _definite bruising_ and _Captain Watson indeed_ before he is seized by the collar and hauled upright, and John's mouth crashes onto his. The detective's startled noise of surprise allows the older man to prise him open and delve inside without warning, and the throbbing ache in his cheek abruptly becomes irrelevant when the solid wood of a bookcase slams into Sherlock's back, the air leaving his lungs in a _whoosh_. But then John is breathing it back into him and everything becomes very hazy after that.

He's not entirely certain that it qualifies as a kiss. It's all teeth and tongue, furious and desperate and hard; surgeon's fingers have an almost painful grip in his hair but he couldn't give less of a damn, fisting the back of John's jumper as every inch of him presses impossibly close, and then John is sucking Sherlock's tongue into his mouth and the detective can't help but moan, toes curling. It's all rough heat and wetness and collision of noses, turning his knees to jelly, sending long-buried signals southward and he gives up all attempts at achieving dominance, lets John grab, lets him push and pull and take what he needs, lets him bite and drag and graze, lets him tug his bottom lip out between his teeth and devour him whole because _oh how I've missed this how I've missed you I miss you I want you I need you I love you_ –

And then John whimpers.

It's unmistakeable. Not a sound of pleasure or passion, but of pain. That's when Sherlock notices that the blogger is quivering violently under his hands and he freezes on instinct, terror suddenly flooding him at the thought of having hurt John somehow, been _too _forceful. His eyes open just as John makes that noise again and breaks the kiss to let out a strangled half-sob into Sherlock's chin. "_I hate you_," he chokes out, the words jagged and cracking like broken glass, a declaration weighed down with so much agony that Sherlock swears he feels it beating in his own chest. "I hate you," John repeats, gasping, and this time it's enough to wind the genius completely. Those deep blue eyes are screwed up against the sight of him, and as he watches John's hand releases his hair and drops down to thump, rather weakly, once on his right shoulder. Intended to hurt, but he barely feels a thing. The doctor's other fist has been clenched tightly around the material of Sherlock's shirt. Not for much longer. "I watched you _die_," John sobs, hitting him again, harder this time. "I watched you fall and I watched you die and I _buried_ you, _Sherlock_, _I buried you_." With a sudden surge of strength he pushes Sherlock back against the bookcase, stepping away, and he forces himself to look up at his open-mouthed, stricken ex-lover and meet those _eyes_ and his wall turns to dust and finally, after all this time, he is laid bare before Sherlock's gaze.

John's chest heaves, hot tears brimming over and spilling down his face but he doesn't care, feels nothing under the searing anguish burning its way through him and he wishes, in that moment, that he never has to feel anything ever again. "Do you know what that was like?!" he cries, swiping at his wet cheek with the back of a trembling hand, "Do you _know how that felt_?!" The doctor doesn't wait for Sherlock to give a tiny, speechless shake of his head before he continues, raising his volume, "_I blamed myself_, it was _my _fault, I should have seen that you were planning to kill yourself _but I didn't_ and it made me _sick_, made me hate myself but_ it_ _was all a lie!_" The detective shrinks back at this, wincing, knowing that even though John is fast approaching hysteria he is fully aware of what he's saying and he's speaking the truth, letting it all out at last. "You let me think you were dead!" John yells, "You told me that you _used_ me, that I was your _pawn_, that you didn't want...that you didn't..." Sucking in a deep breath, his expression crumples as he makes himself say it out loud: "That you didn't _love_ me." Sherlock inhales sharply, feeling every single inch of pain that plays out across John's features as if it were his own, because it _is_, it always has been, and he'd had no idea...no idea...John presses the heel of his hand into his eye, slid closed now, forcing more tears out, his voice a broken whisper as he confesses, "I was so _ashamed_. You never loved me but I couldn't let you go. You were everywhere, all I saw, all I thought about, even when I was with Mary. You were always there, haunting me, in nightmares and panic attacks and I just wanted it to be over, I wanted it to stop, I wanted out, because you were everything and without you I was _nothing_, _I had nothing._.."

His shoulders shake, stars pop beneath his eyelids and his next words are barely audible, hiccupping into his wrist. "H-how can I tr-ust you a-after that?" A shuddering gasp, a half-contained sob and his head lifts and his eyes rake across Sherlock with the torturous intensity of a thousand knives and a raw voice nothing like his own weeps hoarsely, "You left me here _alone_ and I was so _empty _and so _broken_ and it was _worse _than Afghanistan I thought you were _dead_ never loved me I wanted to _die_ and _it was all because of you!_"

And John Watson finally shatters.

A horrible, strangled noise is wrenched from him, an agonising noise that breaks Sherlock's heart, that the John he remembers would never have made. He can't breathe.

The doctor's knees give out unexpectedly, legs refusing to hold him up any longer, but he doesn't fall – thin, careful arms catch his much smaller frame and lower his weight gently to the floor, pull him close to a warm chest, wrap around him tightly as he collapses into loud, uncontrollable tears. John's hands fist in a soft silk shirt and he lets go of everything else, of all the torment and pain that he's been keeping inside. Sherlock tucks the older man's greying head under his chin, enveloping, rocking him, squeezing his own eyes shut and ignoring the ache of his cheek. He feels sick, his stomach twisting into knots with guilt and shame because he hadn't realised, hadn't _understood_...he had no choice but to fall, he can't take it back, but if he'd only _known_ the extent of the damage he'd done to John in falling he wouldn't have behaved so _childishly_ these past two months, wouldn't have pushed, wouldn't have said the things he's said and done the things he's done. _God, no._ And he swears, now, that he'll do anything, anything at all in the world, in this life or the next, to make it right.

John weeps for a long time. Hours, it feels like, and by the time he's reduced himself to hiccups and sniffles Sherlock's legs are numb but he refuses to move, refuses to shift even an inch. He'd rather be painfully uncomfortable than unsettle his blogger now. "Well," John rasps out, voice thick and muffled as Sherlock stills his rocking. "We've fucked up pretty good, haven't we?"

_I have_, the genius mentally corrects him. _I have, John, not you._ _Not you._ "Tell me how to fix this," he pleads, and even though he speaks quietly John can feel the words rumble from where the bridge of his nose presses against Sherlock's throat. "Please. Tell me what you need." Silence falls between them for a few minutes. But he waits, patiently. He's used to waiting. Then the doctor answers quietly,

"Time. I need time." He gives a little cough, tries to speak more firmly. "Not...not _loads_, just...just a little while. To...get myself together. Please." The consulting detective nods without hesitation, because there isn't a thing he wouldn't do for the man in his arms. If it's time that his blogger needs, then he'll give it. John sighs in something almost like relief. "Okay."

"I love you," Sherlock says, softly, but John doesn't reply.

x

_Well, there you have it. Our John finally broke. From here, it's only up - not long to go now until they're back to how they once were, I promise. Just a few more minor bumps along the way, but they understand each other now. It's like 1:30am and I'm shattered, so I'll leave it here for tonight. Hello to all the new followers, great to have you along for the ride! And, as usual, thank you so so much for all your fabulous reviews. You all make my day._

_Chapter Nine coming Friday!_


	9. Absent

**Absent**

xxxx

x

Mrs Hudson can't help but smile to herself as she moves about the downstairs hallway of 221, feather duster in hand, humming an old tune from the radio. When dear old Mrs Turner from next door popped round earlier for their usual Monday morning cup of tea, brandishing a newspaper for Sherlock and an unusually bright grin on her face, she'd known immediately that her old friend had some kind of news for her. Marie Turner is the type of woman who knows all there is to know about everyone, though how she manages this Mrs Hudson has no idea. She isn't sure she wants to ask. But she put the kettle on all the same, and got out some biscuits and ushered Marie into a chair, and waited for her to spill the beans. And well, if the excitable lady hadn't informed Mrs Hudson, with a knowing nod of her white curls, that her married ones had overheard every single word of a terrible barney that Sherlock and John apparently had last night? "Went on for a good hour," she said, "Lots of shouting. Sounded like your John won, though." Mrs Hudson herself hadn't heard a thing – hoovering the living room jarred her bad hip, so it was a couple of her herbal soothers and off to bed for an early night after Emmerdale at seven o'clock. But as Mrs Turner recounted what she'd heard from her married ones, whom she insisted were a very reliable source, Mrs Hudson found that she started to smile despite it all; because if Sherlock and poor John were arguing then something must have happened to break John's self-imposed silent treatment, and that can only be a sign of progress. Goodness knows she's spent enough time over the past two months worrying about her boys, for whom she could do nothing but hope they would be able to salvage something of what they were, and remember how brilliant they are together. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Maybe now, that can happen.

Feeling decidedly more optimistic, she is just giving the umbrella stand a thorough dusting when the front door eases open, and in walks the doctor himself, a pint of milk and his keys in one hand. "Hullo, Mrs Hudson!" he calls with an acknowledging nod and a small smile, and even though it's no different from his usual greeting she finds it lifts her spirits even further.

"Oh, John, dear – I have something for you!" she says, straightening up and gesturing for him to wait there a moment. John allows his smile to grow a fraction as the landlady hurries away, disappearing into her flat, shaking his head fondly. He shifts his keys to the other hand. Apart from a slight headache from yesterday (he hadn't cried like that since Sherlock 'died') he feels noticeably better. Lighter. Misses Mary a bit, still a little crooked round the edges, so not quite good as new, but...it's definitely something. Something encouraging. He knows better than to try and deny that last night's fight was exactly what he and Sherlock needed. Himself most of all. He'd needed that final straw, that push over the edge to make him lose it. To feel Sherlock's lips on his, so warm and firm and familiar after all this time. Even John isn't quite sure how to explain his...pretty unbalanced reaction to the kiss. A kiss he'd convinced himself he didn't want, a kiss that made him short-circuit and _snap_ like a twig bent in half. Part of him wants to cringe at the extremity of the breakdown that followed, but if he's honest, he knows it was a long time coming – and at any rate, the whole episode was somehow cathartic. The breaking of a fever.

"Here we are!" comes Mrs Hudson's voice, bright and cheerful, snapping him out of his thoughts. John shakes himself and reapplies a smile, shifting the keys again and running the free hand over his smooth chin: the first thing he'd done this morning, after lying in bed for half an hour replaying the fight and Sherlock's words over and over inside his head (_Tell me how to fix this. Please. Tell me what you need_) was go downstairs to the bathroom, past a consulting detective that hadn't yet been to sleep, and shave. On the surface he supposes one could put it down to his breakup with Mary, getting rid of his stubble the same way lots of women change or cut their hair after the end of a relationship. Except, there's more to it than just that, even if Mary _was _the one to tell him how nice a bit of shadow looked on his jaw. It's a reach for the past, an attempt at regaining some semblance of the man he was once proud to be. But he's not going to dwell on it too much right now. Mrs Hudson has reappeared, feather duster tucked under her arm, and is handing him one of today's newspapers. "Mrs Turner brought this round for Sherlock this morning," she says with a grin that's completely inappropriate for the headline screaming, _'MASTER PUPPETEER CLAIMS FIFTH VICTIM: KILLER STRIKES AGAIN!' _"Thought perhaps he might want to read it. Dreadful business." She's still grinning. John takes the paper from her, quirking an eyebrow in interest.

"That was nice of her," he replies as he unfolds it, exposing a rather large subtitle: _Sherlock Holmes On the Case! _Half of the page is taken up by photos, a bigger one of who he supposes must be the latest victim, a young man, nightclub owner and underneath that four more smaller photos. Two men, two women, of varying ages, ethnicities, shapes and sizes.

His forehead creases as he realises that _this_ must be the ongoing case that Sherlock kept trying to talk to him about for the past few weeks. The one he'd walked away from every mention of, determined not to be drawn in by the detective, who was clearly trying to pique John's curiosity in hopes of prompting some form of verbal response. The doctor can't help but feel a small pang of guilt at that. Although he still feels his actions were justified, Sherlock _had _been putting a lot of effort in. If he'd listened then he would've known about these murders; he's avoided watching the news for years. Too much about Sherlock, in the months following The Fall.

"That was rather a domestic you boys had yesterday," Mrs Hudson begins slowly, careful with her wording as her smile falters a little, watching John quickly scan the front page before opening up the paper to the ten-page 'Master Puppeteer' spread inside. "Mrs Turner said her married ones were cheering _you_ on over the washing up." John glances up at her in surprise. He didn't know their fight had been so loud.

"Oh, right," is all he says, quickly returning his eyes to the paper so that the landlady won't see the embarrassment on his face. She has to suppress a chuckle at the way his ears turn red, but doesn't mention it. Instead she starts recalling what the married ones told Mrs Turner, as if John wasn't there to see it firsthand for himself. It doesn't matter, though – he isn't listening.

All his concentration is focussed on the paper, because the more he reads about this recent slew of gruesome murders, the more intrigued he becomes. _Victims completely unrelated, never even met one another, throats cut with the same hunting knife, bodies posed like puppets in various places with almost loving precision. Police at a loss. Sherlock Holmes yet to comment. No sign of Watson on the scene. Is this the work of a particularly sadistic (but undeniably artistic) serial killer, an outspoken leader of a new cult, or a simple bog-standard lunatic?_ And the more intrigued he becomes, the more John starts to feel an old, long-forgotten buzz in the pit of his stomach, building quickly. _Excitement. The thrill of the chase._ Mrs Hudson is still talking to him.

"Is everything alright between you two, now?" she asks, and it takes John a moment to figure out that she means him and Sherlock.

"Yeah, 'course," he answers distractedly, not seeing the way her eyes light up at this news. "Much better." It's all she can do to stop herself from clapping her hands in joy.

"That's lovely, dear," she replies in a surprisingly calm, but very warm tone. Nodding, the doctor is silent, thinking.

_Time. I need time. Just a little while. To...get myself together._ It only takes him a moment to make up his mind. "Thanks, Mrs Hudson," he says, closing up the paper and leaning in to give her a quick kiss on the temple, his thoughts firmly elsewhere. And with that he turns, and takes the stairs up to 221B two at a time, leaving the landlady shaking her head and smiling after him.

When he opens the door to the flat, Sherlock is still lying on the sofa in his pyjamas, long fingers steepled under his chin. In the exact same position as when John left, nearly forty-five minutes ago. He hasn't moved a muscle. John finds a good-natured reminder about cramp on the tip of his tongue, but swallows the words. _One thing at a time, John._ "Got the milk," he says instead, lifting the pint in his hand. The genius gives a non-committal grunt. _Working, then._ John drops his keys onto the kitchen counter and puts the milk in the fridge, and then walks back out into the living room. "And this." The newspaper lands gently on Sherlock's stomach, finally prompting him to move. He lifts his head, grabbing for it and holding it up so that he can read the front page. "From Mrs Turner next door, for you," is the blogger's explanation, leaning on the back of his armchair. Silence falls between them for a minute as Sherlock reads, scoffing now and then at some silly, typical journalistic phrase, or a nonsensical theory.

"The 'Master Puppeteer'," he rumbles, eyebrow raised and clearly unimpressed. "How _creative_. Lestrade will be thrilled." It hits John, abruptly in the back of his mind, that he's missed his partner's sarcasm.

"May want to keep the noise down, as well," the doctor goes on, trying to shake off the thought as quickly as possible. "The married ones next door heard us fighting last night, apparently." Shrugging, Sherlock refolds the paper and dumps it unceremoniously on the nearby coffee table.

"Oh, I expect they've heard us doing _much _worse in the past, John," he replies. The way he freezes afterwards tells John that he really, really didn't think that one through. Sherlock swallows, eyes glued pointedly to the ceiling, a light pink flush staining his pale cheeks. John feels his own face start to burn, not least because it's probably true.

Arms folding on top of his armchair, he clears his throat and decides an immediate change of subject is in order. "So, these murders..." he begins waveringly, "this is the big case you've been working on?" His flatmate nods, an unmistakeable look of gratitude fleeting across the younger man's face at having been thrown a line.

"Yes," he answers. "And it's proving to be one of...if not _the_ most difficult case I've ever taken. Whoever is behind this is an expert. Trained. Artistic. He has precision, finesse, and I'm almost certain that there's some kind of dark, twisted irony to his deliberately staged crime scenes...I'm just not sure _what_..." The last few words seem to be uttered to himself, trailing off quietly as his brow furrows. John surveys his long, lithe form, all angles and edges. He thinks of the way Sherlock's mouth felt yesterday, the way he held him so tightly, as if John were the most precious thing in the world, and of the things he said. _Tell me what you need. I love you._ He doesn't know how to voice what he wants to ask. "I've got a press conference with Lestrade about it tomorrow," Sherlock continues, obviously directing this at the blogger, now. "He's finally going to let me say 'serial killer' out loud..." Sitting up, the detective swings his legs over the side of the sofa, and in turning to face John he exposes the right side of his face. Purplish-blue bruising spreads upwards from his high cheekbone and around his eye, a startling contrast against his milky skin. He runs his hands through his mess of curls.

"Probably want to cover up the eye," John suggests, mild but unapologetic. Sherlock smiles briefly; he knows he deserves the black eye, and more.

"Indeed." Clasping his hands, he pulls his bottom lip into his mouth unconsciously and seems to hesitate. Then he asks, the words tumbling out in a rush, "Would you like to join me?" Hopeful, uncertain grey eyes flicker up. John looks right back at him – there's the question he was waiting for. His tongue rolls out slowly over his lip.

"God, yes."

x

_I'm really late with this one today, I apologise. Apparently the writing side of my brain has decided recently that it doesn't want to kick into gear until the early hours of the morning. __Your reviews for the last chapter were phenomenal and I love you all, thank you so much! I hope you enjoyed this one; as promised, a break from the angst, and I decided to give you a more calm chapter after the events of Chapter Eight, haha._

_An anon said they'd love fanart for this story - unfortunately my drawing skills don't go past dodgy-looking stickmen, otherwise I'd make some!_

_Response to the Star Trek/Sherlock crossover AU has been great (the poll's still up, and in reviews), so I was thinking about putting together the first chapter as a preview for you guys so you can see what it'd be like. Any takers?_

_Chapter Ten: "Hurting" (bit angsty, but no more fighting, I promise you!) - coming Monday!_


	10. Hurting

**Hurting**

xxxx

x

The press conference turns out to be a whirlwind of clamouring journalists and flashing cameras, much like Sherlock expected it would be after John surprisingly – amazingly, wonderfully – agreed to come along. It's their first time appearing together in front of the newspapers since his return, and of course they all go berserk, without John even having to say a word himself. Lestrade's valiant efforts to keep the meeting on track (he lets Sherlock say 'serial killer' _twice_) are quickly shoved aside in favour of questions about the Baker Street duo, _are you back together have you split up do you have plans to get married how does it feel to be solving crimes together once more?_ The answer to the last one, in Sherlock's not-so humble opinion, is a resounding _bloody fantastic_. But he keeps that to himself, and responds to all other questions regarding his and John's personal lives with hard stares and sharp-tongued deductions that soon shut them all up. And he knows he isn't imagining the hint of a wry smile tugging at the corner of John's mouth. The grins repeatedly sweeping over Lestrade, Donovan and even Anderson's faces, when the scientist thinks he isn't looking. Sherlock feels more relaxed than he has in a long while, standing up there with his blogger at his side again, beating the rabble of reporters at their own game.

The whole scene is reminiscent of his and John's first public kiss, the day he grabbed the doctor and outed their relationship to the world, and although he knows better than to attempt a re-enactment right now the lingering memories are a steadying comfort. Positive reminders that they were once in love enough to risk their reputations and their lives just to scream it from the rooftops, figuratively speaking (if you don't count that night when John had one too many glasses of wine and proceeded to do just that). And despite it being something of a wrestling match to stay on-topic, by the end of the conference NSY has given an official name to London's newest artist – the Master Puppeteer: sane, sophisticated serial killer. The papers are practically wetting themselves with excitement, and Sherlock, now that he has John back beside him where he belongs, can feel the thrill of the Game starting to build promisingly in the pit of his stomach. This case is going to be a good one. Complex, shocking, intellectually stimulating, and rather extended. _Oh yes, very good indeed_.

His expectations are only raised when he and John are called to a sixth crime scene just a week later. Sherlock has already managed to establish several important facts about the murders, suddenly finding himself able to connect dots that had eluded him up until now. He's said it before and he'll say it again: John is an excellent stimulator of genius. First of all, their murderer is not a madman. He is elegant in his staging and fully aware of what he is doing (or, more likely as a man of this calibre, what he is ordering to be carried out). And as a result he is infinitely more dangerous than any other criminal that they have yet encountered. Perhaps – and the mere notion causes an uncomfortable chill to crawl up Sherlock's spine – even more dangerous than Moriarty, who was completely unstable and could be irrational and reckless in his insanity. Secondly, all five victims that Sherlock has had a chance to inspect may not have known each other, nor have ever met, but there _is_ in fact a connection between some of them: three had something potentially life-destroying to hide. The stockbroker (unfaithful to his wife), the nightclub owner (tax fraud) and the lawyer (tampering with evidence to aid her clients' defences).

That leaves the young cashier from the high-end clothing shop, posed like a mannequin in a window, and the male nurse, lying in a hospital bed with an empty and unused syringe dangling from his arm. Sherlock has no physical evidence to back up his theories regarding those two victims, so he'll keep his..._educated_..._guesses_...to himself for now. Of course, only two of the three secret activities that he does _know_ about are highly illegal, making it very unlikely that their killer is a vigilante out to dispense justice. No, this man could care less about the people affected by his victims' immoral actions. He alternates the genders of his targets, showing that he has a pattern. He has a strict MO, neat and tidy, flawless, perfectly clean, and therein lies the third fact that Sherlock is now certain of. The 'Master Puppeteer', as he has been so _ingeniously _dubbed by the media for his corpse-posing and artistic flair, has killed this way before. Possibly many times, over a considerable number of years across other locations, though never this many in one area in such a short span of time.

Standing staring up at the sixth corpse in a cemetery bathed in sunshine, the world's only consulting detective lets out a pained sigh. "This is horrendous..." comes John's hushed voice from his left, a rare note of disgust in the doctor's tone. The corner of Sherlock's mouth tugs as he pulls a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of his Belstaff and snaps them on, but it's the furthest thing from a smile.

"Clearly he's caught wind of his new tabloid nickname," he mutters quietly. He supposes that once he would have been somewhat impressed with the proficiency of the Puppeteer (and the automaton part of him still is, deep down) but now, surveying the gruesome scene before him, all he feels is distaste. An old oak tree casts cool shadow over the immediate area, including a simple, worn tombstone. _Unkempt, engraving still legible despite obvious signs of erosion. An infant, buried here thirty years ago according to date of death. No flowers. Moss growth. Grave never visited or looked after._ But more disturbing than this is the body that hangs from the branches of the oak, _middle-aged woman heavy-smoker ex-heroin addict no younger than fifty-five unmarried_, clad in a white nightgown stained with blood from her slit throat, barefoot. A yellow chalk halo has been etched onto the tree trunk behind her head, long bedraggled dark hair covering her face. She is suspended by wire, her hands bound together in prayer. "A puppet," Sherlock rumbles.

"An angel," John breathes.

Lestrade approaches, hands shoved into his pockets, expression grim. "We were waiting for you to take a look before we got her down," he says, keeping his voce low. The scene has been cordoned off with police tape and a team of officers and forensic scientists are standing around nearby, waiting for the detective to gather all he can so that they can step in. Sherlock nods, handing John a pair of gloves. Their fingers do not brush. Without another word he steps forward around the tombstone and begins to examine the corpse through his pocket microscope. He manages to concentrate for all of three minutes, during which he succeeds in deducing _same hunting knife wire can be bought at any hardware shop nightdress is hers flowers fake another easy purchase there'll be no DNA from our killer possible traces of drugs in her system looks as though she had a recent relapse she accidentally smothered her two-year-old son whilst high passed it off as natural causes buried him here never visited plagued with guilt_. And then John's distance starts to concern him. Shaking himself, he falters in the middle of examining the soles of the woman's feet. After their relationship developed into something more than friendship the blogger would usually stand a little closer, occasionally throwing the odd idea out to see if it helped Sherlock's brain latch on to any new deductions. John would have gone to extra effort to make sure that their fingertips touched over the gloves. But even though Sherlock knows that giving John time means no romantic interaction, a growing worry has been niggling at him in the back of his mind ever since the accidental neck kiss: that John's feelings for him may have waned in their three years apart.

The doctor was always the most openly affectionate one, especially verbally. But now, whenever Sherlock flirts or says something in the soft, gentle tone he reserves only for his partner, he is completely ignored. John spoke of loving him in the past tense, when he used to say it _every single day_ without fail, and didn't respond when Sherlock bit the bullet and said those three words for the second time since that long-ago rainy morning in bed. Said them sincerely. Said them first. In fact, the only real evidence to suggest that John is still romantically interested in him is the devastating mid-fight snog, which could be put down to adrenaline and fury and out of control hormones. Then there's Mary. John claimed that Sherlock was all he thought about when he was with her, but again, he didn't specify the nature of those thoughts. He was so confident upon his return that John still loved him, still wanted him, that he was simply in denial...He's not so sure about that anymore. Sherlock promised John time and he'll give him that, he'll wait for the rest of their lives if that's what it takes to have his blogger back in his arms again. He'll do anything. But the idea that John might be picturing a return to the beginning, to their days as close friends instead of lovers, makes the detective want to curl up into a ball and disappear from existence. _You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home. __There_. One of the last things he said to Lestrade, before he fell. And how true those words are.

"Did you text Harry, in the end?" he asks as soon as Lestrade saunters away to wait elsewhere, suddenly desperate for some kind of verbal interaction. The answer is, of course, _no_, and he can tell it just by looking at the faint crinkle between John's eyebrows. But he wants to hear the doctor say the words, hear his voice, savour the simple act of just _conversing_ with one another after two months of terrible silence. Sherlock keeps his eyes on the corpse, but he doesn't need to see the way the older man rubs at the back of his neck as he sighs. John has mentioned getting back in touch with his sister a few times in recent days, now that she'll have undoubtedly heard about Sherlock being alive and very, very real.

"Not yet," he replies. "I will, though. At some point." Sherlock nods. He gleans nothing of importance from the woman's feet. _He's anxious. Still irritated with her. She might not want to talk. She was always stubborn like that_.

"Lunch after this?" Sherlock sees John do a double-take out of the corner of his eye.

"Don't you wanna go back to the Yard?" he asks, an eyebrow lifting in surprise. "Or home? Y'know, go over all the..." He waves a hand at the rather unsettling scene in front of them, words temporarily failing him. Obviously, part of the genius _does_ want to sit down and go into his mind palace and run through the meagre amount of information he's gathered. He's far more concerned, however, with making sure that John gets something to eat. The doctor seems to have been eating a little more since his wall broke down, but he's still so much thinner than he used to be. His jumpers hang loosely on him and it can't be healthy. Sherlock knows no change to John's appearance could make him love the man any less, but he misses the curve of John's belly, the cushiness of his arse and the softness of his face. So he shakes his head.

"No, I think a break would be good." There's a pause, and he can practically hear the cogs ticking in his blogger's brain as he considers this.

"Okay, then," he eventually replies, and Sherlock smiles in something like relief.

XxX

He's not smiling later when the worry blurs into cold, sickly fear as he falls asleep that night, alone in his bed.

And he's not smiling when that fear manifests itself in his subconscious.

There are bullets, there are guns and knives and faces, broken faces and blank faces and then _John I wish you were here with me I miss you so much_ and there's blood, so much blood, red and thick and gushing and not all of it is his _just the two of us against the rest of the world _it belongs to John to _John_ and to the men that _he himself Sherlock_ killed _murdered_ to protect those he loves _so much blood John _he's bleeding trying to stitch himself up in a dark backstreet somewhere in Paris and icy terror is clawing up his throat _I'm so sorry John I was too late couldn't stop him I'm sorry so sorry _and that sniper's mark and _so much blood John I couldn't save you John – John – !_

Sherlock Holmes jerks awake with a strangled cry, shooting upright and flinging an arm out to his left, reaching for his blogger out of instinct – only John's not there and for a moment he panics, looking wildly around in the darkness of the room, still half-caught up in the afterimages of his nightmare, heart thundering against his ribcage and blood roaring in his ears. Seconds later the door to his bedroom bursts open and the doctor practically tumbles through in his haste, all ruffled hair and pyjamas and _soldier mode_, his gun clutched in his hand, thumb on the safety. "Sherlock?!" he huffs, the worry clear as a bell in his voice.

"_John_," the detective gasps out, chest heaving, cold sweat prickling across his brow and sticking his sleep shirt to his skin. All the breath leaves John in a rush, shoulders slumping, and he relaxes his hold on the gun. He'd woken up to the sound of Sherlock screaming his name and was out of bed in an instant, a spike of adrenaline through his chest, the fear in the younger man's tone enough to stop his heart completely. Running a shaky hand through his hair, he's so relieved that he feels a bit faint. But that's when the state of Sherlock really registers with him, damp with sweat and desperate for air, inky curls plastered to his forehead.

"What is it?" John asks, moving slowly forwards without even realising it. "What's the matter?" Sherlock swallows audibly, and as the blogger gets closer he can make out the tears cascading down the genius' cheeks, the violent trembling of his stick-thin frame. Clutching the bedsheets in an iron grip, it's a moment before Sherlock replies in a fragile, cracking whisper,

"_Nightmare_."

This isn't the first time he's had that one. It was a recurring thing up until a fortnight ago, minus the crying out, and something he'd never wanted to go through again. His grey eyes are wide and wet, glistening in the faint slivers of light breaking through the curtains. It strikes John, then, just how child-like his partner looks. Frightened and vulnerable, and his gaze is one that John hasn't seen him wear since the morning he fell, in the lab at St. Bart's, pleading, _begging_...

The doctor's rolls his tongue over his bottom lip. He sets the gun down on top of the nearby chest of drawers and walks out into the kitchen before he even knows what he's doing, and moments later he's back with a glass of water and a towel from the bathroom. The mattress creaks as he sinks down slowly onto the edge of the bed, his pulse starting to race again, because even while his brain his yelling at him to hand over the drink and towel and _get out of there_ a sharp, painful tugging from somewhere around his navel is telling him to _stay don't leave him like this not when he's so afraid_. Sherlock's eyes are fixed unseeingly on the wall; the pressure of John's callused fingertips makes him jump at first, but once he looks back to his blogger he lets his hand be prised from the sheet, wrapped around a cold glass. John keeps his own hand on it as he carefully tilts it to Sherlock's lips, so that the man's trembling doesn't slosh the water everywhere, and holds it until the detective has taken a few uncharacteristically eager gulps. Then he sets the glass on the bedside table, watching the ramrod straightness of Sherlock's back abruptly drain away and make his whole body sag. And even though his stomach twists in faint fear at blurring lines, he can't ignore his instinct telling him to take care of the man in front of him. So he fights the anxiety and unfolds the towel, and spends the next minute or so gently drying dark curls and easing (not without suppressing some awkward thoughts) the detective out of his soaked shirt, wrapping the towel around his bony shoulders and rubbing a little to warm him up.

After a while, Sherlock stops shaking. His breathing steadies. His heartbeat slows. John takes a corner of the towel and uses it to wipe at the tear tracks drying on those incredible cheekbones. "What was the nightmare about?" he murmurs, looking to the alarm clock. Nearly four o'clock. _God, too early_. He starts when he turns back and his deep blue eyes unexpectedly lock with intense, silvery grey orbs. Sherlock's lips part, close again. Then he whispers,

"_You_," and fresh tears spill over, and in a voice that sounds more like breaking glass than cracking thunder he gasps, "What happens if you can't love me again, John?" He sucks in a breath that matches the quivering of his bottom lip, and John's jaw drops as he continues, "I promised you time and I'll wait as long as you need me to but what happens if you _can't_, John, what happens if it doesn't help and we can't fix it because you can't love me like you used to?"

He looks so lost, sitting there under his towel, legs twisted in the sheets and all worked up. Positively _wrecked_, an animal strayed from the pack. _Driven_. And John struggles to breathe, because it's one thing to need time to heal from the frayed trust and wounds left by your _partner-in-everything_, but another matter entirely to let him think for one second that you don't care about him anymore. And it hurts, more than John could have imagined, to wage war inside himself; to fight the gut feeling to pull Sherlock into his arms and cuddle some sense into that silly, super-intelligent brain of his, _too soon, not ready, too much_. Doing nothing, however, is not an option. Sherlock cries silently, dropping his gaze to the bedcovers where he feels less worthless and less ashamed. He grips the towel like a lifeline, and John isn't having any of that. "Oh, you stupid git," he sighs out under his breath. Sherlock's eyes flit back up and he takes the detective's chin between fingers and thumb so that he has no choice, no choice but to look at him and see that he means every syllable. "I never _stopped_."

The breath hitches in Sherlock's throat, watery orbs widening. John raises his eyebrows and reinforces, firmly, "_Never_." The word echoes around in the younger man's dumbstruck mind for what feels like an eternity before he finally summons the wherewithal to croak,

"You mean – ?"

"Couldn't stop," John answers with a light shake of his head. "Even if I tried. Even if I wanted to." Another beat of silence. Two. Three.

"But the other night, when I..."

"Saying it back is...hard." The doctor wants to cringe at how lame that explanation sounds. "I mean, it's just...if I say it I need to know...I need to be..." He goes quiet, sentence hanging unfinished in the air. But thankfully Sherlock provides an ending.

"Time."

"Yeah."

They sit in silence for a long while after that. John's hand drops into his lap and they just look at each other, drinking in the details. Sherlock maps the ruffled mess of John's hair and the wrinkles of his sleep shirt and the ghosts of laugh lines around his mouth. John studies the white column of Sherlock's throat and the definition of his strong cupid's bow and the glowingly pale expanse of his bare torso, beautiful, like some kind of monument to the gods. "Feel like you can sleep, now?" John asks softly, once he feels his eyelids start to droop. Sherlock nods.

"Yes. I believe so."

"Okay." He's momentarily confused when, instead of getting up, John reaches over his shoulder and pulls his t shirt over his head. But then it's being pushed over his own head and his arms guided through the sleeves, the towel taken away from him, and he's wearing John's shirt. The blogger stands, smiling: it's just a _tad_ too short length-wise, but with Sherlock's weightloss it's baggy enough not to show.

He doesn't leave right away. He helps the detective settle back down, tugging the sheets up, grabbing the sweat-drenched top from the floor. "Mrs Hudson – " Sherlock begins abruptly, but John's way ahead of him.

"She'll be out for the count," he cuts in reassuringly, "Won't have heard a thing. Herbal soothers."

"Oh," Sherlock sighs, as if the thought had never occurred to him. "Good." His tired eyes close the moment his head hits the pillow, all of a sudden _exhausted_ and surrounded by the comforting scent of John's sweat and skin and musk, and sleep reclaims him almost instantly. But he does manage to get out a mumble that may have been a _Goodnight, John_, and his doctor replies in a whisper,

"Goodnight, Sherlock," and he knows that the slight movement of his curls is caused by John's lips.

x

_I've said it before on twitter, and I'll say it again: I'm a woman of my word. It's 4:43am, and I just finished this chapter (and read it through for mistakes). Needless to say, I'm shattered, so I'll keep this quick._

_I've started work on the Treklock crossover preview, but I have a _majorly_ busy weekend coming up, so it probably won't be up for a little while yet!_

BIG _shoutout to _8of9_, who is absolutely wonderful and isn't very well right now_ :(_ send good energies, guys! Hope you feel better soon lovely!_

_Fan art - if any of you would like to take a shot at making some for AKWTA or AKWTE, I'd be completely honoured. The talent of this fandom never fails to astound me; but please don't feel any pressure to _:)

TRIGGERS - _you've probably already started to form ideas about The Master Puppeteer. I've basically taken a canon ACD villain and twisted him a fair bit to create someone who I hope will successfully be more deadly than our dear Jim from IT (who I will miss in Season 3 with all my heart). But he's gonna get quite nasty later. If triggers present themselves, I will give you prior warning, I promise :)_

_You've probably also noticed I slipped the "major" Sherlock S3 quote from the BBC Drama trailer in there. I couldn't resist!_

_Last but not least, _THANK YOU _so much to all of you who reviewed/favourited 'Take My Hand', my other Sherlock/John work, that work is so close to my heart and it means the world to me. And thank you for the amazing reviews for last chapter. I love you all._


	11. Patient

**Patient**

xxxx

x

Not for the first time this morning, John rubs at his forehead with his fingertips and resists the urge to sigh deeply, eyes closed in a pained expression. _God, give me strength._ He can't decide what he wants to do more: stand up and bang their heads together, or bugger off home and leave them to it. He swears, softly, under his breath.

"_Really_ Sherlock, I hardly think that a simple Christmas visit every now and again would be such a huge burden," snipes Mycroft coolly, irritation beginning to bubble under the surface of his calm facade. He sits cross-legged in an armchair across from Sherlock and John, face pinched, long fingers curled around a half-empty glass of whisky even though it's barely eleven o'clock. The room smells of leather and wood and polish and something old, and John's chair squeaks whenever he moves and yep, he's decided he wants to take the 'go home' option, thanks. The Diogenes Club has always made him uncomfortable, with its enforced silences and worship of tradition. But today it's worse, because last time he was here was the night before Sherlock fell, and he can just see himself now, sitting where Mycroft is installed, calm on the outside but vibrating with anger on the inside because the British Government has gone and put _his_ man in danger, threatened to ruin the name of _his_ detective and it is the farthest, farthest thing from acceptable. John's fingers dig into the arm of his seat. His jaw tightens. Everything has changed since then, but the memories still haunt him, and learning to cope with their presence is just another hurdle to jump in his healing process.

"That's easy for you to say, Mycroft," Sherlock shoots back at his older brother, not even bothering to hide his annoyance. "You're not the one who has to submit to the Spanish Inquisition every time you're in the same room as Mummy." Mycroft is clearly working hard to keep his temper.

"Well perhaps if you bothered to pick up the phone and _call_ her once in a while – "

"You know _exactly_ why I don't call – "

"I believe we're grating on John's patience, dear brother," he interrupts smoothly. "We shall continue this..._discussion_...later." Sherlock immediately goes quiet, and the tension in the room becomes palpable as a self-satisfied smile slides onto Mycroft's face. He arches a challenging eyebrow and John drops his hand into his lap, looking between the two men, half-expecting Sherlock to simply get up and walk out in a huff. After all, he's right: Mycroft _does_ know why he never calls his mother, only speaks to her when he's given no choice. Sherlock's never really been one to give a damn about what anyone else thinks, but he'd been inconsolable when he last rang Mummy Holmes (the Monday after his and John's press conference kiss, which somehow managed to make the national news at seven) to check that she hadn't really had a coronary out of shock, like Mycroft had insinuated. It turned out that she was still alive and well, but really not very pleased that her darling Sherlock had 'taken up with' a man, as she put it, and the brief (and loud) telephone exchange left the genius upset for days.

He ranted and raved, stalked about the flat, labelling his mother as 'ignorant' and 'childish' and a number of other things. Then he grew quiet and subdued, took to sitting around in silence for hours on end, refusing food and cases, and really it was the latter that worried John the most. In the end, he'd had to coax a smile out of the man by offering to arrange a working holiday abroad – _anywhere you like, Italy maybe, or Germany, Christ knows I'll take you to bloody Antarctica if that's what it'll take to cheer you up_ – using Mycroft's credit card. John tried his best not to be hurt by Mummy Holmes' disapproval; it was nothing homophobic on her part, Mycroft had reassured him in what appeared to be a sincere attempt to make amends. Rather, she'd always maintained the fantasy that Sherlock would one day 'thaw out' and fall for some beautiful upper-class woman, get married and have an absurd number of children. "Not that you and Sherlock can't do that," he added hastily, and it was highly amusing to see his ears turn red in an uncharacteristic show of embarrassment. "There are...options, after all. But I believe she imagined it all quite differently." John had mumbled in none-too-happy tones that yeah, well, neither had he.

Not to worry though. She'd come around. Personally, however, John couldn't really give a damn whether she did or not, he'd never met her anyway and was perfectly happy to go on without her interference in their lives. As far as John knows, Sherlock hasn't spoken to his mother since. He would have lied to her too, about being dead. And yet not once in the three years of his absence had the doctor received any kind of correspondence from his boyfriend's parent. Not a visit, not a letter, not a phone call. No extension of sympathy or apology, despite the fact that she had to have known he was a lost and broken man, grieving her son. God knows the media wrote about it enough.

But to his surprise, Sherlock remains in his seat. The detective's lips press into a thin line, an obvious effort to prevent a flood of sharp retorts from spilling out. He's positively scowling and this time John does sigh, heavy and exasperated, because for a moment there he'd thought the two Holmeses might actually have bonded over the emotional upheaval of the last few years. "Alright, ladies," he says as if trying to separate a fight between adolescent girls. "Let's avoid the hair-pulling, shall we?" It could just be a trick of the light, streaming in bright and hot through the windows and illuminating the room, but he could swear he sees the edge of Mycroft's mouth twitch upwards. In contrast Sherlock doesn't react at all, holding his brother's gaze unfalteringly as though John's words are but a whiff of cloud passing leisurely overhead. A far cry from the weeping, shaking man the blogger put to bed just a few nights ago. "Come on then, Mycroft. Why'd you summon us here?" He doesn't bother pointing out that he could've simply dropped by the flat. Mycroft's always had a flair for the dramatic.

The older brother sets his glass down on the end table and stands, crossing over to an ornate writing desk on the other side of the room. Sherlock takes advantage of his back being turned to school his own features into an expression of careful nonchalance; John catches the profoundly human action out of the corner of his eye and hides a smile beneath his fingertips, the quiet filled by the opening and closing of drawers. Moments later Mycroft sits back down with an armful of files. He lays them out on the coffee table as if spreading a deck of cards: Sherlock snatches one up immediately, inspecting it beneath his nose though no doubt he already knows its assigned topic, if not the exact contents.

"When I was finally able to access the publically-undisclosed details of your latest case – " and here John watches him shoot a pointed look at his younger sibling. _Ah. So Sherlock refused to tell you anything himself, then_, – "I decided to do some research regarding the past activities of this...Puppeteer fellow." Leaning back in his chair, Mycroft reaches for his drink again as a small smile settles itself on his lips. His eyes seem to actually be alight when they find the blogger's. "I think you'll be extremely interested in what my people managed to dig up. And I mean that both figuratively..._and_ literally." John's eyebrows draw together in an intrigued frown at those words, his burning curiosity becoming too hard to ignore. A quick glance to his left finds Sherlock still reading away silently in his seat, brow furrowed in concentration and gaze sharp, so he decides to follow suit and picks up a random file. He's spoilt for choice, really: there are nine of them, excluding the one in Sherlock's hands, and they're not exactly thin. John flips to page one and the first thing that jumps out at him is a large, shiny photo of a corpse. A man, late twenties perhaps, with a pale complexion and a mop of ginger hair. He's stretched out naked on a bed, his unmentionables thankfully obscured by a large Polaroid camera, held between his hands. Instead of a duvet he lies on a blanket of Polaroid pictures, although this print doesn't clearly show what the other pictures are of. A congealing stream of dark crimson blood runs down his chest from his slit throat. _Killed elsewhere. Body arranged here_.

John's eyes flit to the typed writing next to the photo. "Steven Wright, Yorkshire," he reads aloud, "19...88?" Looking up to Mycroft, the doctor's frown deepens in confusion. The oldest Holmes only continues to smile at him. Grabbing another file, John doesn't bother to look at the crime scene picture this time. "Alice Eely, Devon, 1975..." _Impossible, surely...there's no way he could have avoided capture for so long..._He reaches for a third, this time from the furthest end of the table. "Jack Lawrence, Plymouth," he says with an exhale of sheer disbelief. "19-bloody-69."

"Indeed." The sparkle in Mycroft's eyes is unmistakeable now, and John realises with a faint stab of surprise that it's a restrained version of the childlike excitement that fills Sherlock whenever he's working a case he deems particularly brilliant. _The thrill of the Game_. He'd take a second to marvel at this display of inner emotion from The Iceman if he wasn't more concerned about the implications of the files in his lap.

"He's been active since the late sixties," breaks in Sherlock before he has the chance to say anything. The detective doesn't look up, his voice ringing out a clear and confident rumble, practically bouncing off the wooden panelling. "Based on the clear lack of skill and elegance in his earliest known killing, I'd say he was about fifteen, young enough and unintimidating enough to have to carry out the deed himself, which puts his current age at about sixty. It wasn't until later that he perfected his Modus Operandi, honed his skill with a blade, and by then he'd amassed enough influence and notoriety in certain criminal circles to enable him to have others do his dirty work. Since then he's been operating in secret, moving from location to location. He's never killed in such a large number in such a small area before, especially not in this small a timeframe..." Trailing off, his steely grey eyes are shining with something like awe. "_Clever_."

"I trust this information has helped you formulate ideas on his _motives_ for these killings?" Mycroft says, and it's only half a question, raising an eyebrow as he sips his drink.

"I already had several theories, Mycroft," Sherlock replies breezily. A beat, then he adds, "But yes, this information has been very helpful. Thank you."

John wonders, just for a moment, if he's accidentally wandered into the Twilight Zone. Surprised eyes shifting to the British Government, he expects Mycroft to make some kind of comment; instead, his face has changed completely. Gone is the smile, vanished along with the light in his eyes. "He wants your attention, Sherlock," are his next words, solemn and quiet. Sherlock's head shoots up so fast it's almost ridiculous, and their gazes lock and it's tangible, the _something_ that passes between them, enough for John to feel as though he could reach out and touch it if he wanted. Tangible and intense, vibrating through the air in the room like a rumble of thunder. "Not your _professional _interest," Mycroft goes on. "Your _personal_ interest. This is more than just a game for him." It's as if John isn't even present, the way the two brothers stare at each other unblinkingly for unnaturally long. But the doctor looks cautiously from one to the other, taking in the set of Sherlock's jaw and the glint in Mycroft's eye. Clearly a silent conversation is unfolding before him, to which he isn't privy. And then Sherlock nods. Just once, just the briefest tilt of his chin, and Mycroft seems to relax. Getting to his feet, the detective drops the file back onto the table.

"You have more of these?" His brother inclines his head.

"Plenty. I'll have them sent over to the flat this afternoon."

"Thank you, Mycroft."

John is still reeling from this _second_ thanks as his partner mutters, "I think we're done here, John," and strides from the room. It's a few seconds before he manages to process this and set his own files down, standing to go after him with a hurried (and only half-forced),

"Nice seeing you, Mycroft." But he's only made it to the door when the man's soft voice stops him.

"John?" He turns, finds the oldest Holmes on his feet, and the concern on his face is undeniable. John's certain, in that instant, that he should be wary about this case. "I know that your relationship with my brother is...redeveloping, but..." The blogger's heart is pounding; he hasn't seen Mycroft look like this since the night before Sherlock 'died'. "I worry for him. Getting in over his head, after what happened. And he is so very fond of you." It's strange to hear Mycroft talk about it. About The Fall, about _them_. About Sherlock's safety. "Keep an eye on him, will you?"

_Maybe I jumped the gun,_ he thinks. _Maybe Mycroft and Sherlock have bonded, after all._ Throat convulsing in a swallow, John nods.

"Always." And he turns, and walks from the room without another word.

He catches up to Sherlock outside, hurrying to fall into step beside him. "What was all that about?" he asks, sure that he's missed something vital, though he doesn't receive an answer – the detective stops abruptly and the next thing John knows long fingers are curled around his shoulders, and lips are pressing against the top of his head. He freezes instantly, so close to his partner that he can smell the man's aftershave. But he doesn't shrink away. His pulse kicks up another notch or three, and a pleasant, warm sensation is spreading from the contact points with Sherlock's body down to his toes. His heart aches, but in a kind of familiar, twisted way, it feels almost good.

Sherlock's mouth lingers longer than would be necessary between anyone without their history together, soft and light. When he straightens up he lets go, releasing the doctor and stepping away. He looks down and he meets John's eyes, wide and surprised and a little bit pained but not at all frightened, not panicky or anxious. "For the other night," he explains in answer to the older man's unasked question. And then he smiles, face lighting up in a grin, because he knows now that he _can_ wait for John to be ready to rebuild their romantic relationship – that is to say, he can _survive_ the wait, because now he knows for certain that John loves him there isn't anything he can't do, anything he won't do, just to have his blogger look at him like he's everything again, like he's the most fascinating, beautiful thing in the universe and not a freak, a machine.

"In your own time," he says in the deep, crushed velvet tones he reserves only for John Hamish Watson, _blogger doctor soldier saviour_, and he can pinpoint the moment that understanding dawns on his partner's face when it breaks out into a radiant, heart-stopping smile, the one he reserves only for Sherlock Holmes, _genius detective hero human_, and knows everything is going to be okay.

x

_Not much John/Sherlock interaction in this chapter, but this was necessary for plot development :) I promise you that what I have planned for chapter 18 onwards will more than make up for everything I've put you through! As always, thank you so much to everyone who reads, reviews, favourites, follows - you're all simply wonderful, there's no other way I can put it._

_Next update (Chapter 12: "Polite") will be coming Monday. Not as soon as I'd like but I have an incredibly busy weekend coming up, plus my lifelong best friend is moving away for a while so it's looking to be a bit of an emotional next few days *sigh*._

_Official title for the Treklock crossover AU has been decided! A preview of 'Dark Constellations' will be coming your way soon._

_Also, I don't know if I've mentioned it before (although those of you who follow me on twitter probably do know), but I'm going to be bringing in Mrs Turner's married ones later on and although I've decided their first names (a surprise...for now) I'm rubbish at surnames. So hit me up with your suggestions and who knows, maybe I'll pick yours and give you a credit :)_

_And again, those of you who've reviewed 'Take My Hand' - I'm eternally grateful that you stuck out 20,000 words. Thank you._


	12. Polite

**Polite**

xxxx

x

The restaurant is busy, bustling with customers at the height of the organised chaos that is lunchtime in London. The interior is dark and distinctly posh-looking, its considerable spaciousness lost in the swarm of diners, low lighting lending a warm feeling to the atmosphere when contrasted with the drizzling rain outside; a far cry from the backstreet cafes and smaller, more 'intimate' establishments that he and Sherlock usually visit, like Angelo's and Speedy's. But wasn't that the whole reason why he chose this place? No one will recognise him here, just another nameless face amongst many. No one will bother him with questions about Sherlock, no '_So are you boys back together then? You do make such a lovely couple'_ or '_How the hell do you manage to put up with that weirdo?' _Not even any _'I'm so sorry to bother you, I'm just such a big fan'_ or _'I love your blog Dr Watson, I read it every day.' _Just perfect, peaceful anonymity.

After all the media coverage he and the consulting detective have been getting in recent weeks, it's a welcome break. A relief. Even more so now that Sherlock's practically climbing the walls, when he's not shooting holes in them, that is – they've not had another Puppeteer victim turn up since the 'angel', leaving the total body count at an even six. With the alteration to his MO in his last murder (stringing up the corpse like an actual puppet rather than just arranging her as if posing a doll) and this sudden break in killings, Sherlock is starting to get antsy over the lack of new information. "I need more data, John!" he keeps insisting, as if the doctor is solely responsible for providing him with it. "It's all too clean, too tidy. I need him – or rather, one of his people – to make a mistake. I need them to slip up." John's theory that the killer may have moved on to another location was shot down before it was even halfway out of his mouth. "_No_, he won't leave until I become _personally_ invested in this case! And I will not allow that to happen again." Sherlock doesn't have to explain why. He doesn't have to say the name. John says it anyway.

_Moriarty_.

"Never again, John. The stakes are too high."

_You mean to protect me, don't you? That's why you're trying to stay detached. To protect me._

"Yes. Always."

John is torn, silent and fidgeting from his thoughts by the arrival of his sister. He glances surreptitiously down at his watch as she shakes out the rainwater from her umbrella in the doorway; she's half an hour late. "Hey, Johnny," Harry greets him, approaching their window table with only the slightest falter in her steps. Standing, John forces a smile onto his face.

"Hi, Harry." He leans in and kisses her on the cheek, because, well, it's the polite thing to do isn't it? They may have had a horrible, horrible row the last time they talked and might not have seen each other for a year, but she _is_ his family. And this is about making amends. Trying to, at least. Harry sheds her coat and he pulls at the cuff of his plaid button-up and tries not to think about how fake his smile feels and how hers doesn't reach her eyes. "D'you wanna go ahead and order now?" he asks and they do, just pastas and waters for the both of them, it's not like the food is the important part of this lunch anyway. Then they fall into a tense, uncomfortable ten-minute silence while they wait for their orders to arrive, alternating between staring out at the rain and sipping from their drinks. The atmosphere is so awkward that John can't help but inwardly cringe, rattling the lid on the jar of emotions inside him dedicated to the last phone call with his sister. Anger. Hurt. Little bit of guilt. Some disappointment. She's his blood and she turned against him when he needed her most, and he can't just forget that.

"So," she mutters.

"So," he replies.

The water shakes in Harry's glass as she lifts it to her lips. Her eyes are ringed with dark circles, her face looking worn and tired, makeup-less with her ash-blonde hair caught up in a high ponytail. A few loose tendrils hang down about her ears, and she looks _so pale_, and goddamn it, something pulls in John's heart and the brother in him sighs out, "How've you been?" She looks up at him, surprise in her blue gaze. Clearly she hadn't expected him to be forthcoming with conversation. But John is stubborn, not cruel.

"Me?" She sets her glass down, smoothes out her shirt, and the corners of her mouth turn up with more warmth this time. "Same as ever." John gives a little nod, pretending not to notice the way she scrunches her fingers up to stop the tremors. She's his sister, of course he loves her, but there's only so much he can do. Harry's always rejected any offers of help and she's not a little girl anymore.

"Clara?" he asks, suddenly curious as to whether she managed to salvage her rocky marriage.

"Long gone." Her eyes dart away as she says it, smile vanishing.

_God Harry why won't you let me help you please just let me._

They got along, once. When they were young, back before the drinking and the Huge Fallout that preceded John's first deployment to Afghanistan. Their relationship was a volatile one at best after that, cautious and draining when Harry was sober and settling down with Clara, strained and painful and riddled with disagreement when she was drunk and leaving her wife for no other reason than that she'd been thrown out of the house _again_. Then their father died and they got it together for the sake of their mother, quit the arguing, tried to put their differences aside. It didn't exactly last for long. "What about you?" Her voice is hushed, as though afraid of being overheard, those baby blues drifting back to find his own. "How're you holding up?" He can see them, all the questions that she isn't asking. _Are you still broken now that he's back? Do you still believe he's real? What's happening with you two?_ It seems he can't escape the interrogations here, after all. John sits back in his seat, folds his arms lightly over his chest and turns to the window.

"I'm doing much better," is his honest answer, as if that's all she wants to know. Harry's never made a secret of disliking Sherlock, his deductions, his occasional tantrums, making a fuss of John's 'contentment with being that arrogant sod's doormat'. _He's no good for you, Johnny_, she would say. _He's an overgrown child and you're his babysitter! _So John certainly isn't going into detail aloud. He's not going to tell her about his meltdown in the kitchen, about their deal, about solving cases together or comforting the younger man in the middle of the night. He won't mention that, after finally letting out all his hurt and fury on Sherlock for leaving him here _so alone_ for _so long_, he now needs only to reacquaint himself with his feelings. Learn to open up like before, embrace vulnerability and trust that Sherlock will never _ever_ do anything like that to him again.

No, there's no way in hell he'll tell Harry that he's steadily growing re-accustomed to Sherlock's presence or that, even though it still makes him quiver nervously inside and his stomach drop just a little he's been pushing it, pushing the boundaries and taking more liberties with touch every day. A brief brush of fingertips here, an affectionate pat on the shoulder there. Little things that add up to the bigger things – filling out his jumpers better, sleeping through the night, smiling – and that go on to make up _everything_.

John expects her to be persistent, to prompt him to say more. But she doesn't. And when he looks back to her he finds that she's smiling at him. "I can see it," she says. "In your eyes. You look alive again. Strong." He simply stares at her. He hadn't anticipated that response. And again, there are more unspoken words: _it's because of him, isn't it? He's come back and now you can breathe again because let's face it Johnny you don't know how to exist without him anymore_. The blogger shifts in his seat, tongue rolling out over his bottom lip as he tries to think of a reply.

"Thanks," is all he eventually says, lamely, but it doesn't matter: he can tell from the twitch of her nose and re-curling of her fingers that Harry has more to say.

"It's almost annoying, actually," she begins, pausing when their food arrives. She waits for the waitress to leave before continuing. "It's annoying, because now I can't keep insisting he's bad for you." John calmly spears a shell of pasta on his fork, puts it in his mouth, chews, swallows.

"Good," he replies bluntly, impaling some more. "Seeing as he never _was_ bad for me in the first place." Harry's lips press into a line, though she's not angry. Yet. She sure does have a temper when she's riled up.

Lapsing back into silence for a little while as they eat, they avoid each other's gaze. Harry surveys the other occupants of the restaurant, trying not to rattle her cutlery against her plate. John watches people hurry past in the rain outside and tells himself that this was a bad idea. A spectacularly bad idea. The awkwardness soon becomes too uncomfortable to try and ignore, and he sets his fork down with a light clatter. His sister quickly follows suit and they sit there, sipping water, as though they barely even know one another. _Damn it Harry why'd you have to go and say those things when you knew it was the cruellest bloody thing you could ever do to me – _

"Look," Harry blurts out after a minute or so, "Those things I said before, I...you _must_ know why I said them – "

"'_You're better off without that freak_,'" John quotes, interrupting. "'_Worming his way into your head so you couldn't even see that he was a fake all along_.'" She has the good grace to look ashamed, a red flush creeping onto her cheeks. She can't bring herself to meet her brother's eyes.

"I'm _sorry_, John." There's no denying the sincerity in her tones, a meekness rarely found there. It's a genuine apology, another rarity in itself these days, one that John can't bring himself to outright reject.

Even if he doesn't yet feel compelled (or obliged) to say it aloud, _I forgive you for insulting my dead boyfriend and being a spiteful cow simply because you'd been sacked for turning up to work drunk yet again_, even if that particular wound is still raw and painful to the touch (an attack on Sherlock is an attack on himself as far as he's always been concerned and is _completely_ unacceptable), John does want Harry in his life. He'll never have it in him to turn his back on his big sister permanently. And she looks positively wretched, sitting there across the table from him with her shaking hands and exhausted eyes. He can feel the ball of anger and hurt in the pit of his stomach start to soften at the sight of her. He lets out another heavy sigh, rubbing at his forehead as he leans forward in his seat. "That was then," he says quietly to his still-full plate. It's amazing how quickly a person can lose their appetite. "This is now. Let's just..." He trails off, but it's alright. Harry nods in understanding.

"Okay."

She goes back to her food, seeming to relax a bit. John picks up his cutlery and puts another forkful of pasta into his mouth, but it's dry and tasteless and sticks in his throat and he finds himself wishing, quite badly, that he could be at home helping Sherlock monitor the rate of decomposition of various body parts. Or just at home in general, really, instead of here having an incredibly uncomfortable lunch with his alcoholic sibling. "How's mum?" he breaks the silence, glancing up from his food. He hasn't called her in far too long, and now that he's no longer absorbed in his own depression and near-insanity he feels incredibly guilty about it. Especially with their father gone.

"She's good," Harry answers, throwing a brief, careful smile his way. Her water doesn't ripple as she takes a drink. "Happy about Sherlock."

_God bless dear old mum and her bloody wonderful accepting heart._

"Misses you, though." The corner of his mouth tugs up somewhat sadly.

"I miss her, too. Lots."

"Call her soon, yeah?"

"I will. I promise."

There's another pause, during which John hopes he may be able to salvage something of this lunch after all. But Harry Watson, once she sets her mind on something, sinks her teeth in and won't let go, won't be shaken off until she's satisfied; so, naturally, it's only a matter of minutes before she comes out with, "Do you still love him?" Exhaling sharply, the doctor frowns in pure frustration.

"Harry, for God's sake – "

"I worry about you!" she shoots back, meeting his irritated gaze evenly as her eyebrows draw together. John wasn't the only child to inherit the Watson stubborn streak. "Jesus, John, the things he puts you through!" He shushes her vehemently, looking around to check that her needlessly loud outburst hasn't attracted the attention of any other diners. Harry rolls her eyes, but lowers her voice. "The things he _does_," she all but hisses. "The things he _says_! You deserve so much better – " John decides then that he's had enough. God knows he's put up with her so-called 'sisterly concern' and relentless smearing of Sherlock's character ever since he first moved in with the man, let alone snogged him (rather enthusiastically) at a high-profile press conference for all the world to see. It's about time he drew the line. Holding up a hand, he stops Harry in the middle of her sentence.

"_Stop_," he says, slipping inadvertently into his _Captain Watson_ voice. "Just stop." He sets his cutlery down, wipes his mouth with the provided napkin. "You don't know Sherlock like I do, Harry," he tells her firmly, her blue eyes widening in surprise. He's never used his _Captain_ tone on her before. "All his coldness, his rude remarks, his smug self-satisfaction – it's a _mask_. It's a shield; it's how he protects himself." Harry appears to have frozen, but he presses on regardless. "You think he's some kind of freak because all you see is the little tantrums he has when he's bored or the sharp, sometimes cruel deductions he makes when he's scared or feels threatened. Well I hate to break it to you, but he's the farthest thing from a freak there is!" People are starting to glance over, turning around in their seats. He couldn't give less of a damn anymore. John throws his napkin down and reaches for his wallet. "You don't see him when he's being sweet in his own _Sherlock_ way, to Mrs Hudson, to shaken witnesses or to me! You never saw him when he was trying to make me breakfast on my birthday, or crawling into our bed in the middle of the night because he'd had a frightening thought while working and needed to be near me! You've never seen him be gentle, charming or witty, never heard him tell me he loves me, beg me to distract him because his own genius is driving him mad! If you had, maybe you'd realise that he's the most _human_ man on the face of this Earth!"

He rifles through his wallet for a twenty, the sound of his own thumping heart drowning out the whispers of the other diners, most of whom are openly staring now. A muscle jumps in his jaw. Harry's mouth opens and closes, struck momentarily speechless. When she manages to gather herself, all she can get out is, "John, I – I just want you to be _happy_ – " Standing, John slaps the note down on the table, enough to cover his order and most of his sister's. The doctor snatches up his jacket and shoves his arms into the sleeves. He barely even realises that he's chuckling as he does so, light and high.

"I _am_ happy!" he says, and knows it's the truth even as the words leave his mouth. He'll never be happier than he is with his consulting detective – because Sherlock _is_ his, no matter the definition of their relationship. _At his side. Always._

John pauses just long enough to shake his head at her, smiling all the while. "I love you, and I miss you; the drinking and fighting with Clara is one thing, but I can't allow you to keep talking about Sherlock like he's not good enough for me. When you think you can accept that he's the man I've chosen to be with, we can talk. Don't be a stranger, Harry."

And with that he turns and leaves his sister there, giddy with the strength of his sudden epiphany, striding out into the rain.

XxX

He breezes into 221B in much the same way, stupidly bright and practically buzzing with positive energy. Sherlock doesn't so much as glance up from his microscope at the kitchen table as John hangs his coat up, running a hand through his wet hair. "Bad lunch?" The blogger crosses into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"Absolutely shit," is his reply, reaching to retrieve a cup from the cupboard. And Sherlock does lift his head, then, at the cheerful tone of John's voice. His brow furrows in confusion when he sees the expression on John's face.

"You sound absurdly pleased." Looking around at him, the older man is grinning like a lunatic: his eyes crinkle around the edges and it's as if decades have simply fallen away from him in that moment, so much younger does he appear. John doesn't say anything. Just stands there, hands braced against the edge of the counter, beaming more brightly than Sherlock has seen him in _years_. "Why, if I may ask, do you look like you've just won the lottery?" John licks at his bottom lip, gives a little shake of his head.

"You," he answers, in a voice that says it should be obvious. The crease between Sherlock's eyebrows deepens, and after considering this for a second he asks in a rumble,

"What about me?" The kettle finishes boiling.

John laughs, turning back to his tea.

"I can't even kiss you without feeling like I'm going to suffocate with fear," he explains. "And yet you still make me so bloody happy I can barely breathe anyway."

x

_This chapter was meant to be up Monday (I count it as yesterday even though it's 1:20am) and for that I apologise; I had a really tough day mentally and emotionally and had to call it quits halfway through writing before I keeled over. On the bright side, though, the extra time meant I could expand on this chapter more than originally planned and make it longer for you guys. I was a bit unsure about bringing Harry in, because I didn't really have a clear idea in mind of who she is as a character or how she fits into the 'A Kiss' universe. In the end, she kind of wrote herself._

_Also, I don't know how many of you are aware of this but the fabulous **vanimelda** made an amazing piece of fanart for this series! You can find it on my writing tumblr (ej-mulford/tumblr/com) or I'm sure if you asked nicely she'll link you to her pinterest page [I don't know if she wants to keep her real identity *superhero music* secret so I haven't linked directly here yet, but I can :)]_

_All of you who've offered to make fan art - I'm bloody honoured. No other way to put it._

_Chapter 13: "Spontaneous" will be up Thursday/Friday. As always please feel welcome to follow my twitter (emily_mulford) and/or writing tumblr (ej-mulford) for updates, writing, info or just general nerdiness and Johnlock feels._

_I was so pleased with the reaction to the last chapter: to Mycroft's appearance, the Puppeteer and John and Sherlock's little 'moment' - your reviews were wonderful, thank you! And thanks to everyone who provided name suggestions! I knew asking you guys was the right move, keep 'em coming._

_Still working on the 'Dark Constellations' preview!_


	13. Spontaneous

**Spontaneous**

xxxx

x

Sherlock is trying desperately to ignore the headache creeping up behind his eyes. He's spent the better part of the last hour sprawled out on the sofa, shirt sleeves rolled up and staring at three of the Puppeteer case files. They all date back to the eighties, long since declared cold. All of the posing was done with precision, each crime scene flawless in their total lack of useful evidence and clear professionalism. There's a whole box of more files on the coffee table beside him, plus those of the recent murders. Frustrated, he paces the floor of the ballroom in his mind palace devoted to this mystery, restless and growing more agitated by the day. And more intrigued. No matter how hard he studies the photos or for long, no matter how many times he goes over the information, there's just..._nothing_. Oh, there are things he can deduce – and he has formed a theory of his own with regards to the motives behind this latest killing spree. But none of the deductions are a suitable lead. And he'll keep his theory to himself for now. The picture he's painted of this new shadow, on the ballroom ceiling, has dizzying complexities; it has details, a background, a history. It has reasoning and darkness, sanity and intelligence and elegance, and a blur where a face should be. And it has a name.

_Consulting killer._

It will not have occurred to John or Lestrade yet, but he has already figured out why this man is so desperate for his _personal_ investment, his personal attention. _Oh, yes,_ Sherlock muses silently. _I know who you are. You're our missing piece._ His lip curls at the print of a woman posed in eternal prayer. _Did you know him, too? Did you dance with the devil, or simply steal his horns?_

_I will not give you my attention like I did him._

"Yeah. Yep. Sure thing." A cheerful voice breaks into his thoughts, John's laughter floating in from the kitchen. "Okay, Sarah. I'll see you later, then?" The doctor shuffles into the living room, a cup of tea in one hand and his phone in the other, pressed to his ear. It had taken a lot of pleading from Sarah, some prodding from Lestrade and a tiny bit of subtle encouragement on Sherlock's part, but at long last John agreed to return to his old job at the Surgery. Now that he is significantly better in terms of general wellbeing, it seems only right that he should go back to the work he used to love so much (on the condition that Sherlock doesn't tackle an exciting case without him, of course, and really, the detective would never dream of such a thing). "Alright then. Bye!" Hanging up, a brilliant grin stretches itself across John's face. Sherlock allows the corner of his own mouth to turn up, returning his eyes to the files. The atmosphere in the flat has been undeniably brighter since the blogger's confession of his happiness a few days ago: just the memory of it is enough to make Sherlock's stomach flip pleasantly. Hearing those words come out of John's mouth, _you still make me so bloody happy I can barely breathe_, has only cemented his belief that they can and will move past this, go back to how they used to be. They've barely bickered since and John has hardly stopped smiling, even despite the thunderstorm that Sherlock became when he explained all that happened at his lunch with Harry.

It took three hours and a fresh specimen from the morgue for the genius to calm down and realise that no, asking Mycroft to make Harry Watson disappear would not solve anything in the long run. It wasn't even the things she'd said about him that made him shake with anger, but that she'd dared to try and tell John what was best for him, tried to interfere yet again. Still, it hasn't seemed to be so much of an issue to John – he appears content to let his older sibling get on with it until she can learn to accept things as they are. And if that's what _he_ wants, then Sherlock is perfectly happy to do the same.

He already knows the answer, but he asks anyway, "When do you start?" The doctor's grin widens, slipping the mobile into his jeans pocket.

"Monday," he answers as he steps closer and moves things around on the coffee table. He manages to clear enough space to set the cup of tea down, which makes Sherlock look up at him with surprised, questioning eyes. Raising an eyebrow, he says firmly, "For you. You haven't had a drink all day." The younger man simply nods, reluctant to start an argument that could end the positivity of the past few days. In fact he's only just now registering the uncomfortable dryness of his throat, and all of a sudden he's parched. He practically throws the files down and grabs for the cup, scalding his tongue with the first gulp. John turns away with a good-natured roll of his eyes and heads back into the kitchen to fix a cuppa for himself. He leaves the teabag to soak for a few moments as he goes around the flat and starts to put lights on; night is descending quickly upon London, signalling the end of another day getting nowhere fast with the Puppeteer case. Really, with the way things are going he'll be surprised if Sherlock doesn't start prowling the streets for the killer out of sheer boredom. Tugging the hem of his cardigan down, John allows his gaze to drift over the consulting detective when he walks past the sofa, holding in a chuckle at the sight of Sherlock sticking out his burnt tongue and frowning as if mortally offended.

A myriad of soft thoughts as to how he could help soothe that burn cross his mind, and he lets them flow whilst opening cupboards and inspecting the fridge for anything edible. It's not long before he's forced to conclude that there _isn't_ anything. He lets out a sigh, closing the fridge door and retrieving his tea cup. "I'm gonna have to go shopping tomorrow. We've got nothing for dinner, unless you feel like severed ears." The doctor sinks down into his armchair, leaning his head back and wondering if he can perhaps scrounge something for a meal from Mrs Hudson, just for tonight. The prospect of having takeout _again_ is almost enough to make him lose his appetite entirely. Sherlock, of course, watches each idea play out across his face like a flashing sign. Reaching for his tea again, he risks a tentative sip now that it's cooled somewhat. He knows that if left to consider his options for much longer John will simply decide to skip dinner, rather than hassle their landlady or call the Thai place for the millionth time. And in Sherlock's books, that would be a bit Not Good – John's just starting to get back on track with eating properly, the gauntness finally fading from his face, and the detective refuses to let his partner's good progress be ruined now. Clearing his throat, he sets the files down on top of the cardboard box and looks to the doctor.

"We could go out for dinner?" he suggests in a voice that's little more than a cautious rumble.

It's a moment before those deep blue eyes swivel to him as John lifts his head, and Sherlock hastens to add, "Not a date, just...just dinner." He swallows, wanting to cringe at the way he nearly stumbles over the words. "Nothing...like _that_." His mouth closes with a faint snap, forcing himself to shut up so that he won't embarrass himself further. Somehow he manages to hold the doctor's gaze, fervently hoping that he won't think this is a ploy of some kind, a trick, an attempt to initiate any romantic act, because the food really is his main focus. John is a grown man, and Sherlock knows that; but he also loves that man, swore long ago that he would take care of him, and if making sure the blogger gets three square meals a day is how he does that, then so be it.

John looks at him for so long that he's certain the man is going to decline. But then, without the slightest change of his expression or hint of suspicion in his tone, John replies, "Angelo's?"

Sherlock smiles.

They haven't been there together in over three years. John swore to himself after The Fall that he would never visit Angelo's again, because sitting at that corner table without his consulting detective would be unbearable. An empty heart was enough; he didn't need an empty chair, too. But at eight o'clock there he is, happily digging into a risotto on the house, as though no one ever died. Sherlock sits across from him, smiling even as he tackles a Bolognese that he doesn't want but knows will subconsciously encourage John to eat, too. Angelo has had the common sense not to fetch them a candle this time. He finds himself immeasurably grateful for that fact. Thoroughly pleased to be back in their old haunt with his blogger, Sherlock decides to leave the Puppeteer at home for the night and does all he can to steer the conversation away from it. He doesn't want to talk about death and evil here, in their little bubble, sealed off from the rest of the world (assuming you ignore the other diners, that is, and he blocks them out very well).

But John's mind is firmly elsewhere, in the flowery garden of a cottage in Sussex, thirty years from now, and he can't help the quiet giggle that escapes him. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. "I'm glad you find my retirement plan so amusing, John," he says, failing to sound stern as he twists spaghetti around his fork. The doctor bites at his lip to try and contain himself.

"I'm sorry," he apologises, not sounding a bit sorry at all. "It's just...you, keeping bees." A grin threatens to twist his mouth. He fights it valiantly. "I can't decide if it's endearing or...ahem...odd." The detective's other eyebrow lifts now. "Not in a bad way," John hurries to explain, reaching for his drink. "It's just, you're so...y'know. Energetic. Most of the time." He sips his wine. "It's hard to imagine you slowing down enough to actually retire."

Eyes crinkling around the edges, Sherlock chuckles lowly. He's about to ask the question when John looks right at him and provides the answer. "Good thing I'm not afraid of bees, right?"

The rest of the evening passes quickly – _too_ quickly, if you ask a certain genius, whose heart sinks just a little as they say their goodbyes to Angelo and leave for home, long after the other diners have left. He'd rather been enjoying the night out, even if he had to be careful about avoiding romantic undertones (the wine was Angelo's doing, his best bottle, and John would've felt rude if they'd asked for something else). "That was nice," he says, pulling on his gloves. "I've missed that." They should be able to get a taxi from not too far down the road, and his eyes automatically begin scanning for one, ready to throw out his arm at a moment's notice. As a result his words are quiet, directed more at himself than John. So the hand on his coat sleeve takes him by complete surprise when it stops him in his tracks, pulling him round to face the blogger. Standing in the middle of the pavement, John just looks at him for a minute or so. Sherlock can see the cogs spinning inside his partner's mind and he stays silent, waiting; for him to speak, for him to nod in agreement, to let go. But he doesn't. Instead, John edges closer, and without warning he stretches up on his tiptoes and presses warm lips against the detective's cheek. They linger there for what feels like an eternity before he pulls back.

"Thank you for a lovely night," he says gently, and suddenly every effort made to avoid 'undertones' is undone as the evening takes on a very abrupt, very distinct feel. _I'm not his date!_ John holds his gaze and distantly, Sherlock becomes aware of his face starting to burn. The hand is still on his arm. He's unable to breathe, let alone move.

_Oh God I know you're not ready but please John please will you kiss me just once just quickly John please_ –

The doctor smiles, then. And he lets go, stepping back a fraction and throwing his arm up in the air. A taxi that Sherlock didn't even see slows to a stop. "Come on," John murmurs. "Let's go home."

They don't speak all the way to Baker Street. But it's a comfortable, contented silence, one of good food and too much wine and the customary tiredness that follows such a night. Sherlock looks out of the window, replaying John's lips against his skin over and over as the world rolls by. John closes his eyes and dozes. Replays his lips against Sherlock's skin. Over and over and over. Spontaneity. The opportunity seized him, rather than the other way around, but it was...good. _Really_ good. He's shaken from the brink of sleep when the cab comes to a stop outside 221, and he decides that bed sounds like a good idea. It's past midnight. John pulls out his wallet and pays the cabbie as Sherlock unlocks the front door and goes straight on in, trying his hardest not to yawn. Then he's finally ascending the stairs to 221B, thinking of his bed and soft duvet and cushy mattress. "Y'know," he begins, scratching at his ear as he makes for the open door of their flat, "We should do that more oft – "

And he doesn't get the rest of his sentence out. Because standing in the middle of the room, completely rigid and still as a statue, is Sherlock. His steel grey eyes are transfixed on the shadowy mass on their sofa even as John fumbles for the light switch, and the mysterious shape is illuminated.

He's stretched out on the sofa, feet fitting perfectly against the far arm. The suit he wears is black, the button-up underneath a familiar shade of purple. No tie. Top buttons undone. He gazes up at the ceiling, fingertips steepled under his chin in an appearance of deep thought.

Held in place with thin wire pinned to the ceiling.

The baroque wallpaper behind him is marred by six words in elegant, crimson calligraphy:

_Do I have your attention now?_

x

_Well. That's a bit Not Good, isn't it?_

_4am. Must sleep. Will return at decent hour and edit this A/N into something understandable._

_Goodnight for now! x_


	14. Unafraid

**Unafraid**

xxxx

x

_WARNING: Numerous mentions of drugs._

x

Greg has been a DI long enough now to know that a one am phone call is never a good thing. So when his mobile starts blaring out the lyrics to _Beat It_ into the darkness of his bedroom he flings an arm over his face, groaning, and fully expects to be summoned to yet another Puppeteer crime scene. They're overdue an appearance: the bastard probably started to get bored...

_They told 'em don't you ever come around here..._

There's a muffled noise and a creak of mattress springs, and Sarah burrows into his side. "Greg?"

_...disappear, the fire's in their eyes..._

Sighing deeply, the DI wraps an arm around her shoulder and reaches for his phone on the bedside table.

_...do what you can, don't wanna see no blood don't be a macho man – _

"Lestrade?" he mumbles, voice roughened with sleep as he presses the receiver to his ear. Sarah hides her face in her boyfriend's chest and curses the ungodly working hours of his job; at least there are no midnight shifts involved with being a nurse at the Surgery. But seconds later her thoughts are disrupted as Greg suddenly asks, "_John_?" in a very much wide awake tone, and sits bolt upright in bed, making her slide abruptly off his chest.

"Oof!"

"Shit – sorry, love." A hand finds hers and gives a gentle squeeze in apology, but she barely notices. Sarah props herself up on an elbow, brushing her hair behind her ear as Greg continues, "John, what's – hang on, _what_?" He falls silent, allowing the man on the other end of the line to explain. His expression slowly clouds over in the dim light, a mixture of concern and shock invading his features, and Sarah's heart leaps into her mouth. Something is obviously very wrong. "_Jesus...Christ_, okay, right. Shit. I'll be right there." And with that he hangs up, muttering curses under his breath as he pushes the covers back and gets out of bed. Sarah watches him with worried eyes.

"What's wrong?" she asks, leaning over to turn on Greg's bedside lamp. Warm, low light floods the room, illuminating him rummaging in his drawers for trousers and a button-up. "Are John and Sherlock okay?" There's a flurry of movement as he pulls his sleep shirt over his head and scrambles to get dressed, and possibly break the land-speed record while he's at it.

"Yeah," he sighs, sounding relieved. "Yeah, they're fine. It's the Puppet killer. You won't believe what he's done..."

XxX

John tries to smile as he politely declines yet another cup of tea pushed under his nose by a young officer. He may have a blanket, forced upon him by a Donovan who wouldn't take no for an answer, but he's really not in shock. As both a doctor and a soldier, seeing a dead body isn't exactly a new thing for him. God only knows that, too many times, he's been the one to put it there. But Sherlock? He's been sitting in his armchair across from the doctor with his fingertips pressed together under his chin for over an hour now, completely silent, unmoving, and John thinks that maybe _he's_ the one who needs the blanket instead.

It's still dark outside. Can't be any later than two o'clock, though nobody is asleep in 221B. All the lights are on and the coroner's just arrived to take the body, and everyone's making such a ruckus going up and down the stairs that Greg really has to commend Mrs Hudson for even attempting to go back to bed. She'll be out cold though, if her herbal soothers have anything to do with it. The poor landlady had been pretty shaken herself at the thought of killers snooping around upstairs while she slept. "Rob was a nice guy," the DI says soberly, eyes following the black body bag as it leaves the flat. He pushes his hands into his pockets. "His wife reported him missing two days ago when he didn't come home from work. He'd have been in Narcotics for ten years next month. Really great bloke."

"Makes you wonder why the killer chose him to murder and then play dress-up with," mutters Sally, folding her arms matter-of-factly across her chest, and Greg shoots her a warning look. The body's deliberate and frightening resemblance to Sherlock was the elephant in the room that no one had yet dared to mention. The clothes themselves don't belong to the detective, though everyone knows it's his usual style of dress and they've all seen him wear a similar shirt before. Coupled with the very accurate position in which he was posed – as if wandering through the corridors of his own mind palace – and the near exact height and weight measurements, Lestrade isn't sure he wants to tell Sherlock that Robert Gregson was a natural blonde. And this is his first time seeing the man with black curls.

Just the implication of what the dyed hair means is enough to have him repressing a shiver. He quickly decides that a change of subject is in order. "The writing is just red chalk," he says with a gesture of his head at the vandalised wall over his shoulder. "Not blood. So that's a plus." John nods in agreement even though he already knows that; Forensics is starting to crawl over the place, not just the sofa. They're in the bathroom and the fridge and Anderson has assigned himself the sole pleasure of going through Sherlock's bedroom (John hopes that Sherlock still has the handcuffs in the top drawer of his bedside table, that'll teach the git to be nosey), and even as he watches a masked woman takes close-ups of the skull on the mantelpiece and –

_Wait a minute._

"Sherlock," John blurts out, sitting up straight in his armchair. "_Sherlock_." At long last, he breaks into the detective's reverie. The urgency in his tone makes Sherlock lift his head, and the man follows his gaze to the skull. Sharp, silvery eyes go wide.

"What?" asks Greg as he and Sally look between the two men. "What is it?" The woman by the fireplace has frozen now, totally still under their intense scrutiny.

"Our skull," Sherlock answers, the rumble of his voice so low that it's practically a purr. "Our skull has never worn an eyepatch before." And with that he's up, moving to the scientist in a flash and plucking the skull from her hands, sliding off the black patch. He holds it up to the light by its band, examining it closely. John pushes himself out of the armchair to stand beside him. He pays no attention to the shock blanket as it slips from his shoulders, taking the skull from Sherlock.

"Hang on," says Sally with a confused frown. "Are you saying that the Puppeteer left behind an _eyepatch_?" She goes ignored, however, as John's eyebrows knit together and he murmurs to his partner,

"What do you think it means?"

"He's a pirate?" Greg suggests jokingly, shrugging. Sally rolls her eyes. John doesn't even hear him. But Sherlock does, and his eyes rake over the DI whilst he considers this.

"What've pirates got to do with anything?" Sally mutters under her breath. She's speaking more to herself than anyone else, but there's still no time for even a smartarse reply as Greg is approached by a balding, middle-aged officer.

"Sir." He holds up a transparent evidence bag for his boss to look at. "We found these in the bathroom." And there, glittering away, are two crystal stud earrings.

The silence that descends on their little corner of the room is so thick that John could hear a pin drop. His face contorts in confusion. Sherlock and Sally's mouths fall open. Greg takes the bag wordlessly and the officer walks away, shaking his head at the strange people he has to call colleagues. A few long, bewildered seconds pass. Then Greg clears his throat and turns to the Baker Street duo. "These yours?" he asks. Eyebrows threatening to disappear into his hairline, he's only half-kidding. John shakes his head earnestly.

"Definitely _not_ ours, never seen – " he begins, but is cut off when Sherlock's free hand shoots out and grabs the bag from Lestrade's grip.

"Yes you have, John." An odd look has come into the genius' eyes, one that John isn't sure he likes. It's a mixture of reluctance, thoughtfulness, acceptance, and something that looks an awful lot like nostalgia. The doctor can't really explain why it makes his stomach twist comfortably, watching Sherlock purse his lips without even inspecting the earrings more closely.

"I – I have?" For a moment, Sherlock says nothing. It's been four years since their last meeting, years so lonely and dark that the scent of rich perfume and the scorching heat of Karachi feel a world away. He was a different man, then. Arrogant and foolish, loving only behind closed doors, too obsessed with the Game to really appreciate the humanity with which he'd been blessed. He's tried his best to forget that man, whilst hanging on to some of the happier times with John. But her? No, he could never forget anything to do with The Woman. She was always an entirely different story, a separate entity, a force of nature. Inerasable. Undeletable.

"Those are Irene Adler's earrings," says a soft, almost envious voice that doesn't come out of the detective's mouth. It belongs instead to Sally, eyeing the jewellery with recognition plain on her face. "I'd remember them anywhere," she explains as the three men look to her in surprise. "They're _Swarovski_." Judging from her tone this should be enough of an explanation; it means nothing to John, and Greg certainly doesn't have a clue. But Sherlock nods as though he understands, and that's enough for John to pose his next question.

"So how did they get _here_?" he asks, tapping his fingertips absent-mindedly on the skull. He tries not to let his face cloud over with an old jealousy – because back then it had felt like Irene captured Sherlock's interest in a way that he never could. She'd flirted and come on to the man that he wasn't allowed to admit was _his_ and that had hurt, had made him ache inside for the entirety of The Woman's invasion into their lives. Made him start to believe he couldn't possibly be enough for the world's only consulting detective. He knows better, now. "She's been dead for years." The blogger looks up at Sally and Greg. "She was beheaded by a terrorist cell in Pakistan, Mycroft told me in person..." He trails off when Sherlock gives an awkward little cough. The bottom of his stomach drops out when he realises that the younger man is fidgeting, chewing on the inside of his cheek and oh, if that isn't an expression that John Watson knows all too well. His tongue rolls over his bottom lip, fingers stilling around the skull, jaw tightening. _Go on then, you secretive sod,_ he wants to say. _What else have you been keeping from me all these years? _Greg sees the potential argument threaten to unfold right there in the middle of the living room and decides it would be best, for everyone currently present, if he intervened. Only Anderson chooses that instant to shout from the downstairs bedroom,

"_Freak!_" Sherlock wastes no time in thrusting the eyepatch and earrings into Sally's hands, making his escape through the kitchen. There's a moment where a muscle jumps in John's jaw and Greg honestly thinks, from the sudden tension in the doctor's frame, that he's going to go after the detective and demand answers. But then he relaxes, dropping his gaze to the floor and sighing, and makes a mental note to interrogate his flatmate later.

Sherlock meanwhile practically bursts into his bedroom in his haste to get away. So relieved is he at having avoided explaining himself that a polite, _Yes, Anderson? _is right there on the tip of his tongue when his eyes fall on the forensic scientist standing on the other side of the room, in full scrubs. That is, until his brain catches up a millisecond later and he registers the cling film parcel dangling from Anderson's gloved fingers, and the words die before they can leave his mouth. "Care to explain?" Anderson asks, his voice tight and clipped as if it's taking him a lot of effort not to shout. Sherlock supposes it must be: even though the man's face is a mask of perfect calm there's something hot and angry smouldering in his dark eyes. The detective glances to the open top drawer of his bedside table, back to the little package and the substance inside. It's like unexpectedly running into an old friend. One that used to make his pulse roar, his skin burn with fire and the sharp, jagged edges of constantly screaming thoughts temporarily smooth over, fall blissfully silent.

_Cocaine._

Sherlock's fingers curl into fists. _Of course_, he thinks. _The eyepatch. The earrings. And now the drugs. It makes perfect sense. _He forces himself to meet Anderson's intense stare. "That isn't mine," Sherlock says, keeping his tone low, and it's the truth. He hasn't indulged since before John came into his life, not even in the agonising three years that they were apart. Scoffing, Anderson's carefully controlled expression slips and vanishes.

"Oh, I suppose the _killer_ must have just _left it behind_," he replies sarcastically, openly glaring now. Sherlock grits his teeth to keep his patience in check. Reaching behind him, he subtly closes the door before anyone else has the chance to overhear.

"_Yes_," the genius hisses back, drawing himself up to his full height and rumbling the word with authority, in the way that demands he be listened to. "As a matter of fact, he did." Anderson, however, isn't the least bit intimidated.

"And I'm supposed to believe that?!" The scientist lets out a quiet, dark laugh and practically growls, "Fuck, Holmes, how could you _do this_ to John – " Sherlock clenches his fists tighter. Sucking in a deep breath, he attempts to swallow down the agitation and keep a reign on his temper.

"It's the _truth_!" He says it with confidence, with emotion, enough to make Anderson go silent. He's surprised to discover that he's shaking. When he does, it's instantly clear that it's not just from fury – fear prickles up the back of his neck, crawls cold and clammy into his veins, because if Anderson were to go to Lestrade with this, if John were to find out...The anger quickly melts away as the potential consequences play out inside his head, and some of it must show on his face; Anderson is watching him intently, waiting for him to say something more.

"It's not mine," Sherlock repeats, amazed at the steadiness of his own voice. "I've been clean since I met John, I swear." Palms starting to sweat, his Adam's apple bobs in his throat as he swallows nervously, holding those dark brown eyes.

"So you're saying I should just take your word for it?" The scientist doesn't speak harshly, or with vehemence. The question is calm and subdued, without a single trace of the sharpness previously inflicted. It still has Sherlock fighting not to panic.

_If there was ever a time for me to beg something of you, you smug git, it would be now. _"John told me he'd leave," the detective murmurs. "If I was ever caught high, or with any amount of drugs in my possession...he said he'd leave me – " He can't help the way his breath hitches, trailing the end of his sentence off into the air. It's an awful memory, that particular conversation, one that he'd rather put out of his mind as soon as possible. And there is a _serial_ _killer_ to investigate here, after all. _God help me, John, is there nothing I wouldn't do for you?_ "Please. You _must_ know...I _couldn't_..."

They stand there for what feels like an eternity, simply looking at each other. Then finally, just as Sherlock is starting to wonder if he could tackle the other man and swipe the cocaine before anyone else was alerted, Anderson's face softens. He straightens up, tucking the little parcel of white powder into the palm of his hand. "I'll dispose of it properly back at the Yard. No one will know." And then he unzips his scrubs, and slips the package into his trouser pocket. Sherlock's whole body sags with relief, a lungful of air heaving out of him.

"Thank you," is all he says.

Anderson realises that hearing Sherlock Holmes plead is not as satisfying as he thought.

XxX

The next discovery doesn't come until almost an hour later, when Forensics is just starting to finish up. This time it's in the form of a disc that they likely wouldn't have found for weeks, had John not noticed the flashing red light indicating that their DVD player has been turned on. He, Sherlock, Greg and Sally crowd around the television as he presses Play.

_Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?_

The doctor's knuckles go white around the remote. "It's him," he breathes out as though he's the only one watching. "It's him, Sherlock." A sleek, tailored navy suit, perfectly combed hair. High, lilting voice. _Moriarty_. Sauntering around the pool with his hands in his pockets, the Irishman's movements are followed by the camera, handheld but steady. The scene is being recorded from Moriarty's left-hand side – judging by the elevated angle of the shot, pointing downwards at him, the person behind the lens was positioned in the upper area of the pool. They'd have been completely hidden from John and Sherlock's sight, enveloped in shadow. But the duo isn't even in view. The camera is focused solely on Moriarty as he teases them and moves closer, and John begins to wonder what exactly the point of this recording is. What's the Puppeteer trying to tell them? That he knows about their past entanglement with the consulting criminal? That, God forbid, he was once affiliated with the man himself? A sudden chill washes over John's skin at the idea, because if this killer picked up a thing or two from dear old Jim then there aren't words for just how much trouble he and Sherlock are in now. The iciness continues to spread throughout his body even when he remembers that Sherlock went to extreme lengths to ensure that _all_ of Moriarty's men 'disappeared', destroying his network forever. That still leaves other options, though, the most probable of which seems to grow more and more likely the longer they watch.

_But the flirting's over Sherlock, daddy's had enough now!_

What if the Puppeteer didn't work _for_ Moriarty? What if he worked _with_ him? What if they were _partners_? _Oh, that would be fantastic_, the blogger grumbles inwardly. _Just bloody brilliant_. He opens his mouth to share this with Sherlock, who no doubt will be ready with an answer to either confirm his fears or soothe them. The detective is perched on the edge of his armchair, elbows on his knees and fingertips pressed together over his mouth, brow furrowed. John wonders if Sherlock is thinking the same thing.

He almost misses it. Deep blue eyes flicker back to the television screen just in time to catch the blur of red as it speeds over the back of Moriarty's skull. A fluke, perhaps. Just the passing mark of one of his own snipers as they take their aim on Sherlock or the blogger. Nothing intentional. At least, that's what it looks like until the dot flashes by again, and this time it settles on the hollow beneath Jim's left ear. In total view of the camera. John sucks in an involuntary breath. _Impossible_, he reasons. _We would've seen...we would've noticed_...

_The missile plans. Boring. I could've got them anywhere – _

_Sherlock, run!_

_Oh ho, __gooood__!_

A sharp exhale from Sally now, when the sniper's mark vanishes as soon as the shot is blocked by John – and then reappears the moment Moriarty is released and out of the doctor's reach.

_Westwood_.

The dot continues to hover for the remainder of the 'conversation'. It's impossibly still, unwavering, not flitting about like those that had occasionally found John's chest or Sherlock's forehead. When Jim leaves the camera stops moving, fixed on an uncharacteristically flustered Sherlock as he tears the vest of explosives from his doctor's body (_are you alright? Are you alright?!_) and pushes them away. John's fingertips dig into the arm of his seat; if he concentrates, he can still feel the rush of pure relief bursting through his veins, the light-headedness, the quivering limbs. He can still feel the raw emotion that plays out on the face of his recorded self when he looks to his detective, whose own identical expression is concealed from the camera by a mop of inky curls.

_You...ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk_.

_People do little else._

And when Moriarty waltzes back in the shot zooms smoothly to him and catches the red dot as it resumes its place. The Bee Gees start to play. Moriarty yells. Makes his excuses. The mark relocates to his forehead after he turns to leave, and follows him out of the pool. The door slams shut behind him. The film cuts to black, and then nothing more.

It's a few moments before Greg notices the unusual silence in the flat. He turns to find every officer and scientist frozen watching the DVD, and clears his throat. The noise prompts them all to return to their separate tasks of moving various equipment out of 221B. "Oh," Sherlock purrs, steely eyes fixed on the blank screen, "You danced with the devil alright. But the horns were all your own..." He practically throws himself out of his armchair to get at the DVD player. By the time John has managed to find his voice, the detective already has the disc all but pressed up to his eyeballs.

"It can't be real," John rasps, tone rough with disbelief. "It can't be – we'd have seen – we'd have _seen_ the mark on him – "

"Deliberately hidden behind the lobe of his ear, in a high-pressure situation like that, finally face-to-face with our greatest adversary, with _Moriarty_ in the flesh?" Sherlock doesn't even look up from inspecting the DVD, the words sounding almost like an admonition. "Forgive me, John, but at the time I was rather more concerned with saving your life than searching for rogue snipers." The blogger opens his mouth with some kind of retort, though he's cut across by Greg before he can get anything out.

"_Rogue_ snipers?"

"Yes, two. How do I know?" Sherlock flips the disc over in his fingers, examines the other side. _No prints._ "The red mark on Moriarty's head was very steady whereas the others – those on John and myself, which will have been aimed by his most trusted men – were not. _That_ sniper had experience, was used to holding a target for extended periods of time. Then there's the place he takes aim, out of our sight, out of everyone's but the cameraman's. He was also not in a position to get a good shot at us, so that's not what he was there for; he was primarily just for show. Moriarty's focus was not on him, enabling him to train his gun on the man himself. Add to this that he was clearly in cahoots with the cameraman, whose hands were equally steady and whose breathing was inaudible therefore _controlled_, and we have two snipers then recently employed by dear Jim who received specific training elsewhere and were by no means novices, infiltrating his network with the intention to shoot him dead if _we_ were ever placed in significant danger, under the instruction of a third party."

"So you're saying," whispers Sally, "that the Puppeteer was trying to _protect_ you two from Moriarty?"

"In a nutshell?" Sherlock quirks his head in apparent thought, shoves the DVD at a thoroughly bewildered Greg, turns to grin excitedly at John. "_Yes_."

XxX

The flat is released as a crime scene just as dawn is creeping over the horizon. Greg gathers his officers and Forensics together before they leave and tells them, sternly, that the Department can't afford to let this one get out to the press. There'll be uproar and media frenzy if the papers find out that Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson were personally 'visited' by the Puppet killer, and serious consequences for anyone found to have leaked information, _am I being clear?_ He was clear, crystal in fact, with his eyebrows lowered and his _Detective Inspector_ tone of voice. And after quietly reminding John to call him if anything should happen, Greg and the rest of the Yarders are gone. It's just the doctor, the detective and the skull. Sherlock does not attempt to sleep. Instead he installs himself at his desk in the living room, laptop on but no tabs open. Shutting himself away in his mind palace. John knows that his partner is keeping something from him, but he's too drained to wheedle it out of Sherlock at this time in the morning. He ends up stretching out on Sherlock's bed in his clothes, unwilling to go upstairs and leave the detective alone. His handgun is placed within easy reach on the bedside table.

The next thing John knows it's nine o'clock and sunshine is pouring in through the windows. He forces himself to get up, untangling his legs from the throw on the bed and shuffling out through the kitchen. He stops dead when he reaches the living room. Mycroft Holmes is sitting in his armchair. The British Government spares him a brief glance, taking in John's crinkled clothes, wild bedhair and sleepy features. The corner of his mouth tugs briefly upwards in amusement. "Good morning, John." Looking back to his brother, Mycroft says more softly, "I'll be in touch." Sherlock has moved from the desk to the other armchair and now sits in his usual thinking pose – but the expression he wears is serious, one of a furrowed brow and pursed lips. His mind seems to be somewhere very far away, because all he does is nod once in response. Mycroft stands without his customary pained sigh, umbrella in hand, pausing to simply look down at Sherlock for a moment. John watches, tugging at the sleeves of yesterday's wrinkled shirt. Then Mycroft appears to collect himself; straightening up, he clears his throat and, turning on the heel of one perfectly polished shoe, breezes out of the flat. The slight inclination of his head to the doctor as he passes by is barely noticeable, but there's no mistaking the thinly-veiled concern laid out plain across Mycroft's face.

John waits until he hears the downstairs door close before moving.

"What did your brother want?" he mumbles, padding back into the kitchen in his socks to put the kettle on. There's a slight creak and a rustle of fabric and Sherlock is up, reaching over John's head to retrieve some mugs and set them on the counter. He retreats to a seat at the table as his flatmate bustles about making tea, and doesn't say a word until a steaming cup is set down in front of him, and John moves to lean back against the worksurface.

"He heard about our little...surprise," Sherlock finally rumbles, adopting his _on-a-case_ tone. He's still wearing last night's suit, somehow managing to look unnaturally immaculate as always. "He came to inform me that he now considers this case a '_personal matter_' – " an unnameable emotion comes into his voice on those words, one that John can't quite put his finger on, " – and that he's putting his people on it, officially. As of tomorrow there will be a security detail shadowing our every move." Long digits curl tightly around his cup even though it's hot. John's forehead creases faintly at the sight. Lifting his own drink to his lips, he blows gently on the liquid before taking a tentative sip.

"There's something you're not telling me," he says bluntly when he succeeds in not burning his tongue. Sherlock's eyes shoot up from the table to meet his, and see in those warm blue depths that the doctor has steeled himself. "Go on," he prompts. "Tell me. I know you've figured a whole lot of things out about this..." John waves a hand in the air, "...this...Puppet bloke. And seeing as he obviously wants to say hello, I think I deserve to be let in on your theories." Another sip. "Please." It's a simple enough request, hardly a big ask, and completely reasonable given the circumstances. But Sherlock hesitates.

His partner is absolutely right, of course: John does deserve to know what's going on, or at least, what Sherlock _thinks_ is going on. But if the events of last night did anything, it was drive home to the consulting detective just what kind of power they are facing this time. It's intelligent, and dangerous, and far more skilful than anything they have ever encountered in the past. Ideas and theories will not be enough to prepare them, or save them, if their adversary should abruptly change his mind. And if Sherlock's main suspicion turns out to be correct, and John isn't of importance to the Puppeteer at all...just how much is safe for the blogger to know? What will make him a target, and what will keep him insignificant in the eyes of the killer?

They hold one another's gaze for what feels like a long while. John can practically see the cogs going round inside Sherlock's head, and Sherlock can sense John's stubborn determination as if it were a palpable force. At last, when his tea is cool enough to gulp half down in a single mouthful, the genius starts to speak. "The killer knows about my past," he explains quietly. "In...intimate detail." A nod from John in understanding, and he goes on. "He – or rather, his people – specifically left behind three items to show me that. Firstly, the eyepatch on our skull." There's a pause as he swallows the rest of his tea. The doctor frowns.

"The eyepatch is a link to your past?" he half-asks, sounding confused. Instantly he's struck with images of Sherlock taking on one-eyed bandits, chasing them through the streets of London. Sherlock knows exactly what he's picturing and rolls his eyes.

"_Think_, John." He does, lines deepening on his brow. Sherlock gets up and dumps his cup in the sink, opening the cupboard for the bread and switching the toaster on; he'll be damned if he allows John to forget breakfast because of this. The toast has hardly been in five seconds before a small noise of comprehension breaks the silence.

"Of course," murmurs John. "When you were a kid you wanted to be a pirate." Something like astonishment flows freely over his features. "But how could he _possibly_ – ?"

"He'll have his sources," Sherlock replies, tapping his fingertips on the worksurface while he waits for the toast. "The second item is more obvious – Ms Adler's earrings." The doctor goes quite still at that, remembering the way the detective had fidgeted and avoided his eyes. Downing the last of his drink, John turns to face his partner with a resigned, knowing expression.

"She's not really dead, is she?"

"No," is the instant answer. "She isn't. But Mycroft and the government believe so." Closing his eyes a moment, he sighs deeply.

"And you weren't really in Vienna that time, were you?"

"I was not." Sherlock licks unconsciously at his lip, a habit he picked up from his blogger long ago, and hates the way his stomach twists when John opens his eyes. The man hasn't looked at him with such genuine wariness, such anxiety, since the day he asked if Sherlock had fallen for The Woman. An aching combination of emotions, uncertainty and doubt, fear and acceptance.

The toast pops up.

He doesn't remember stepping forward, but suddenly Sherlock's hands are on John's face, tilting it upwards, staring into orbs wide with surprise. "_Nothing_ happened," he tells the blogger. "_Nothing_, John. I've never wanted anyone the way I want you, I..." He intends to explain how unpleasant the thought of touching someone Not John is to him, how much it makes him want to wrinkle his nose because oh, God no, _only John, only ever John._ But the words catch in his throat, stick to the underside of his tongue as he slowly realises how close he has thrown himself to the older man. They're pressed together from toe to chest, lightly, just enough to suddenly set every nerve ending in his body ablaze. His heartbeat stutters. Stops. Starts again, thundering away behind his ribcage. They haven't been this close together since that rough, agonizing kiss a few weeks ago and now, feeling the heat rolling off John's body, the sweet, quick puffs of breath reaching his lips, the nervous tremors that are breaking out over his own skin – Sherlock is frozen. The little voice in the back of his mind screaming _kiss him kiss me please do it please _goes ignored.

Because John is not shaking.

He stares up at Sherlock and doesn't even notice that his hands have fisted in the detective's suit jacket, doesn't really register anything but the relentless pounding of his heart and the sincerity in those impossible eyes and the warm, coiling knot of anticipation in the pit of his stomach.

He stands nearly nose-to-nose with the man who once destroyed him, and he is unafraid.

XxX

"What was the third item?" he asks an hour later, in the back of a taxi on the way to St Bart's. Sherlock, still in a slight daze from this morning's close encounter (after which John had simply cleared his throat, stepped away and proceeded to finish making toast), looks to him blankly.

"Hm?"

"The third item. The link to your past?"

"Oh." Turning his gaze out of the window, Sherlock swallows. "It was... a bag of cocaine." He senses rather than sees the doctor go rigid in his seat.

"_What_?"

"Don't be angry."

"I'm not angry."

"Your left hand is clenching." John peers down and sees that he has, in fact, curled a fist on his thigh. He breathes in through his nose and splays his fingers on the denim.

"Not mad at you," he mutters. And it's true. The sudden boiling of his temper is directed at the bastard who knowingly left a sample of drugs to an ex-addict just to prove a point. He takes another deep breath, lets it out. "What did you do with it? The cocaine?"

"Anderson found it in my bedside table, next to the handcuffs," Sherlock mumbles, keeping his voice low so that the driver won't hear the last part. The virginal streak inside him threatens to blush profusely at the rather delightful memories conjured up, but he fights it down. Only a faint flush creeps onto his defined cheeks. "I convinced him it wasn't mine. He pocketed it and told me he'd dispose of it discreetly at the Yard." John's eyebrows shoot up, his head swivelling round to stare at the genius.

"_Anderson_ passed up the chance to...?" _To have you at his mercy. To have your name besmirched yet again. To have to you see the inside of a prison cell._ Coughing, Sherlock changes the subject.

"Now, the video at the pool," he begins, stealing a sideways glance at John. "_That's_ a different story. It tells us that the killer's aware of our past involvement Moriarty and that he was, at the time, on our side. So to speak." Shifting slightly, John chews his lip as he thinks it over for a moment.

"You're saying the Puppeteer doesn't want to kill us?" Sherlock has to force himself to nod.

_Me, John, he doesn't want to kill __me__ – but I swear I won't let him touch a hair on your head._ "If he wanted us dead he could have achieved that by now," he says instead. "Evidently he has detailed knowledge of our lives, knew that Mrs Hudson would be asleep and that the locks on 221's doors can be picked quite easily. It's safe to say that he's watching us, possibly even right this minute." A muscle tightening in his jaw is the only crack in his facade of utter calm, trying to be subtle about the way he scans passing buildings and pedestrians. To his credit – and thanks to the well-trained soldier in him – John manages to appear fairly composed. The tension in his shoulders and sharpening of his focus on the outside world are things that only the detective knows him well enough to notice.

They've been under unwanted surveillance from dangerous criminals before, _years_ ago, and they slip effortlessly into standard protocol. The duo turn and smile at one another, timing the action perfectly. "And the message on the wall," John begins, "that was obviously for you. Mycroft did say that the killer wants your 'personal attention', didn't he?" Sherlock nods, grinning.

"Yes. But this isn't a game to the Puppeteer. It's an attempt to communicate. In his eyes, the items left behind were friendly gestures, including the tape." The doctor chuckles lowly, the noise sounding fairly genuine. To anyone watching them from a distance it would seem as if they were having a pleasant, normal conversation.

"So killing Gregson was what? Showing off?"

"Something like that." Quirking an eyebrow, John folds his arms across his chest.

"So even though this guy isn't posing a threat to us – _yet_ – you still agreed to Mycroft's security detail?" Sherlock pulls absent-mindedly at his gloves, tilting his head.

"Indeed." The corner of John's mouth twitches upwards, and this time it's not fake.

"That's a bit illogical of you, isn't it? Accepting your brother's help is like losing face to you." The smile fades from Sherlock's lips, an entirely different look coming into his eyes. It's a minute before he replies, quite seriously,

"There has never been room for logic in my need to protect you, John." And the blogger's grin disappears too, because they both know how far Sherlock Holmes will fall for those he loves.

XxX

"I'm afraid I haven't got much for you," Molly apologises softly as she lifts the sheet back, exposing the body down to its waist. "I only just finished the autopsy, your brother asked me to push it forward..." John is almost tempted to roll his eyes; that sounds exactly like something Mycroft would do. Stepping back out of Sherlock's way, Molly gestures to a second examination table nearby. "I laid out his clothes and things for you over there. Greg said you didn't get to take a close look before the coroner came for the body." A small smile pulls at Sherlock's lips at this little half-truth. He'd actually had plenty of time to inspect the corpse, but in the moment had been too..._unsettled_, and too absorbed in his theorising to do so. After all, it made sense that the killer would target Gregson: someone who worked for the Yard, to show that he's aware of the consulting detective's ties to NSY, but not someone of emotional significance, not a person Sherlock cares for. Keeping it civil. Molly brushes at a tendril of hair come loose from her ponytail, regarding the body soberly. "Same MO as the others," she says. "Throat cut with a hunting knife. The flow of blood proves he was killed elsewhere before being arranged on your sofa." She points at Gregson's hands pale hands. "The wire was inserted through the back of the hand and out of the palm, then through the other hand. Same wire as used on the other victims."

With that she falls silent, lacing her fingers together at her waist, and Sherlock nods as he moves forward. "Thank you, Molly. He snaps on a pair of latex gloves and gets to work examining the body. John hovers, taking the opportunity to think over everything that's happened in the past twenty-four hours. He hasn't really even had the time to replay last night's _kiss_, pressing his lips to Sherlock's cheeks outside the restaurant, gingerly stretching up on his tiptoes like a pair of teenagers on their first date. Because that's what it turned out to be, didn't it? A date. It was supposed to be just dinner, but if he's honest with himself he's hardly surprised that the night changed the way it did. Eating together in the low, warm light of Angelo's, laughing, talking about Other Things – not cases, not Harry. Life. Happy ideas. Sherlock had brought up the subject of retirement and his personal plan and John had listened, envisaged it all with a smile on his face: the Sussex cottage, bright summer sunshine, a cheerful garden. He's never been much of a green thumb but who knows; maybe when he's in his seventies he'll take it up. Somebody's gonna have to look after the flowerbeds while Sherlock's fussing over his bees. And John had pretty much volunteered himself for that, hadn't he? He should've known the day they met what he was signing up for – to run around after the world's only consulting detective 'til the end of his days.

_Good thing I'm not afraid of bees, right?_

The creaking of a door brings the doctor out of his thoughts, looking up. Stuart throws him a smile and a little wave as he slips into the room, two bottles of water in his other hand. "Hey, guys." Molly's face lights up at the sound of his voice, turning to greet him, and John smiles back.

"Hi, Stu." He can't help but notice the dark circles under Stu's eyes, the usual vivid green dulled with tiredness. His short blonde hair sticks up at odd angles from where he's been constantly running his hands through it. He must have just finished his shift, something John can sympathise with entirely. Stu sidles up to Molly and passes her one of the bottles, sliding an arm around her waist.

"They're here to look at Rob," she tells him in a murmur. Her features fall a bit when she glances back to the body on the slab, and Stu lets out a deep sigh.

"God, it's such a shame," he says sincerely, rubbing at Molly's hip in a gesture of comfort. She leans into him, lips pressing into a tight line. "We met him at the Yard Christmas party. Nice guy. Real nice guy."

They lapse into silence for a few minutes, watching Sherlock move from looking over Gregson's corpse to start investigating his clothes and other items. Black trousers, purple button-up, black jacket. Black silk boxers. Socks and shoes. Wristwatch. Two fifty pound notes. "How's it going?" John asks, shifting from foot to foot and tightening his arms across his chest.

"The clothes are not mine," the detective mutters back, the label of the trousers under his nose. "But they are the same brand. Same size." He moves onto the next item. "The socks and shoes are also the same. No mud on the soles, brand new. The wristwatch is like mine, too. The killer obviously went to a great deal of trouble to make Gregson look like me – the hair is dyed, of course." John gives a nod, as if already aware of this, when in reality it makes his stomach turn over: he'd never met Gregson before. Part of him had been hoping that the dark curls were natural. Skipping delicately past commenting on the boxers (another twist of John's stomach, because how the hell does the killer know what kind of underwear the genius is partial to?) Sherlock picks up one of the notes.

"From his jacket pocket," Molly informs him. "Folded up together. I haven't examined them yet." Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock peers closely at the note, flipping it over between his forefinger and thumb. He holds it up to the light. Sniffs. Pulls a face and licks, delicately, at the paper.

Then he suddenly goes very, very still.

John's eyebrows draw together automatically, taking a step forward. "Sherlock? What is it?" But the detective doesn't reply; instead he snatches up the other note, repeating the same actions. He throws them back down on the table and darts across to the slab where Gregson's body lies, lifting one of the officer's hands. Reaching into the pocket of his Belstaff, he produces a scalpel and runs it gently under three short nails. A light film of red dust collects on the pads of Sherlock's fingers every time. Molly, Stu and John stare in confusion as the scene plays out, and cringe when Sherlock then licks one of his fingertips. Any disgust is soon forgotten, however, because Sherlock straightens up, and his mouth forms one perfect, silent 'o' of realisation. John crosses the space to him out of instinct. "What've you found, Sherlock?" he asks, heart starting to pick up the pace as his flatmate turns to him, an excited grin slowly spreading across those incredible lips.

"Mr Gregson's little secret," is Sherlock's cryptic response, deep tones reverberating off the walls of the morgue. "Quickly now, John!" And with a swish of coattails he's bounding towards the door, hauling it open and careering through, his call of, "The Game is _on_!" still echoing behind him. A burst of adrenaline shoots through the doctor's veins, making him grin like a maniac, pulse racing, and he snaps into action as if he and his detective were never, ever parted. He just about has the presence of mind to huff out,

"Thanks, Molly!" before he's gone, out of the room and sprinting down the corridor after Sherlock.

The door squeaks as it swings shut, leaving the pathologist and nurse in a thick, speechless silence.

It's a moment or so until Stu recovers himself enough to say, "I guess they're gonna be okay after all." He'd heard from Greg that the duo were talking again, but this was more than he'd hoped for – John looking healthier, brighter, practically beaming. Sherlock not being an arse.

Molly only smiles, and pats the middle of Stu's back.

XxX

"Stay close," Sherlock whispers, beckoning for his blogger to keep up. "This isn't the friendliest of neighbourhoods." John mutters something about going back for the gun under his breath, but Sherlock shakes his head. "No time." It's barely midday, but John can hardly see where he's going. Here in the darkness of underground recesses and alleyways, surrounded by grubby walls on all sides, they're guided only by the faint light of a small torch Sherlock procured from within the depths of his coat. A rumble overheard almost makes John jump even though he knows it's only traffic. They must be beneath a bridge now, this network of tunnel-like spaces seeming to go on forever.

"Where are we?" he hisses, the hair standing up on the back of his neck. They stopped passing huddles of the homeless a few minutes ago. It's only themselves, the darkness, and the distant _drip, drip _of water on stone. He receives no reply. More minutes go by, still more walking. There's a foul smell down here, stuffy and raw, something like sewage. It makes the doctor wrinkle his nose. Twice he almost stumbles, catching hold of the Belstaff to keep himself from falling over. Sherlock only tugs him up, and keeps on going.

That is, until the air finally starts to clear and lighten, and John can finally make out Sherlock's figure. The odd shaft of sunshine creeps in through the walls, though the sounds of pedestrians and cars have faded considerably.

"Stop – this is it." The genius throws out an arm, drawing them both to a halt. "Look – " And he shines the torch beam down at the ground. John squints.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?" There's a sigh, and he swears for a moment that the wrinkling of Sherlock's forehead is almost audible.

"The red dust I found under Gregson's fingernails," the younger man explains. "I knew I recognised it. This is the spot, John. This is where he used to come, whenever he could get away from work or his wife with a decent excuse." He swings the torch up, finding an expression of utter confusion on his partner's face. "Dear old Rob," he says with just a touch of sarcasm, "was involved with drugs."

"And you know this _how_?" Sherlock sighs again as if this were all very tedious, but the smile he wears would be blinding above ground.

"The notes in his pocket. The killer left those there _deliberately_ because he knew that I would have a chance to examine the corpse myself. There were traces of cocaine on them. It could of course have been coincidental – Gregson _did _work Narcotics, but I picked up on a distinct sewage smell when I was looking over the body beforehand. The notes were also covered in smudges, indicating that they'd exchanged hands quite frequently, hands that weren't very clean, prompting me to believe that those particular notes had been touched by numerous unkempt, drug-connected parties. Playing on the social stereotype I naturally thought of the homeless. But _two_ fifty pound notes? We rarely see them in everyday use as most people prefer to use cards rather than irritate a cashier with that much change. So, not the homeless. The notes previously belonged to someone dealing in large sums of money that could not be transferred by card – John, isn't it obvious? Gregson was taking bribes from drug rings to direct the Narcotics Department of NSY away from their activities. No wonder he was such a '_nice guy_', he was – "

"_Rolling in it_," John finishes for him, slightly breathless. He's only faintly aware of his mouth hanging open, of the long-forgotten heat coiling in the pit of his stomach.

"Exactly," Sherlock concludes, grinning proudly. "And to cap it all off I've worked out the Puppeteer's motive for killing, he – " But the detective doesn't say anything more, because a surgeon's hand closes quite abruptly around the material of his scarf and yanks him down, close, and the words evaporate on the tip of his tongue when he finds himself nose-to-nose with John for the second time in a single day. His heart stops beating in his chest.

"_You_," the doctor is murmuring, blue eyes warm with awe and affection, with disbelief and...Sherlock swallows, hard..._desire_, "are..._amazing_."

_Every possible variant._

How many times have they been here before? Together like this, reeling, John barely able to believe the sheer genius of his _partner-in-everything_, Sherlock barely _daring_ to believe that his blogger could really find him so fascinating and not...a freak? _I've never wanted anyone the way I want you._ He's lost count, but Sherlock _does_ know that he's never wanted _anything_ so badly as he does now: John's breath is sweet on his lips, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes, _so close_, and he _knows_ what's coming even as his bewildered gaze flits to John's mouth and back, _finally God I thought I'd never get to feel this again, John, finally_, and he feels the hand sneaking under the back of his suit jacket, feels the fingers tightening on his scarf to pull him in as he moves to find the doctor's waist and –

– feels John go rigid in his arms.

Confusion seeps into those soft eyes. Sherlock's brow creases lightly, murmuring his blogger's name. And then John's knees give out and he folds like paper, crumpling into Sherlock's arms. "John?" The detective supports his weight so that he sinks to the floor rather than falls. "John!" His eyes are shut by the time his body curls, completely limp, in Sherlock's lap. That's when the genius starts to panic. Shaking the ex-soldier's frame, he grabs John's chin, slaps his cheek lightly. Moves his fingers to cradle the back of John's head, and finally notices the thin, cold metal rod protruding from the back of his neck. He pulls it out, lifts it into the light. Stops breathing.

_Tranq dart._

His pulse is thundering so loudly that he doesn't hear the taps of approaching footsteps, doesn't register the appearance of shadowy figures out of the darkness until a deep, gravelly voice speaks.

"Mister Holmes. We've been waiting."

x

_First things first - I'm aware I've made some of you panic that I was abandoning this story, and I just want to take this moment to promise each and every single one of you that I will never do so. I couldn't give up on this story if I tried. I'm too emotionally invested in the outcome. Hopefully after reading this chapter you'll understand why it took me so long to finish (adding in that I've had some personal things going on which I've had to deal with). I just hope the wait was worth it! *crosses fingers* Thank you so much for being patient with me._

_It's alllllllllllll kicking off now. We'll be meeting the 'Master Puppeteer' himself next chapter. These guys are just his 'people'._

_I've mentioned before that I was planning to start a degree course. It starts on 5th October, and as I'm studying online I'll be having to do a lot of extra work in the first few weeks to make sure I understand - I just want to make you aware that this will slow updates from then on. But the updates WILL come._

_As always, thank you for all the amazing feedback from the last chapter. You make my day, really you do._

_Oh, and...I don't own 'Beat It' by Michael Jackson, obviously. All credit to him on that one._

_Chapter 15 - coming Friday!_


	15. Relieved

**Relieved**

xxxx

x

_Sunday, 7:35pm_

The first thing John becomes aware of when he wakes is the splitting headache pulsing behind his eyes, and the way it makes him immediately want to crawl back into unconsciousness.

The second thing is the cold weight of steel around his wrists.

Stirring, he lets out a quiet moan as his eyelashes flicker open.

The only light in the room is low and warm, coming from a small, antique lamp on an end table over in a far corner. As for the room itself, it's a fairly sizeable space: elegant, dark wood-panelled walls, polished floorboards to match with some tall, full bookcases positioned here and there. A cushy-looking loveseat is pushed up against the wall to John's far left, in between the lamp and a bookcase, and there, stretched out on his back with his feet and shins dangling over the sofa arm, is a familiar curly-haired figure. Even despite the wooziness and slightly blurred vision, John's heart gives a terrific leap in his chest. And it all comes flooding back. The morgue, the tunnels, the sudden sharp pain in the back of his neck just as he was about to – as _they_ were about to –

He struggles against the cramped heaviness of his own limbs, only to realise with a pained hiss and a groan _why _they feel that way: he's sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair, arms pushed through the vertical rungs in its back, and his hands are cuffed together at the base of his spine. The deep, throbbing ache in his bad shoulder is almost unbearable. A whimper slips out of him when it jars, slurring out, "_Sherlock_," the word so light and breathless that it's barely more than a sigh of air. But it doesn't matter – gentle fingers are already on his face, cupping his cheeks, tilting up his jaw, and his vision finally clears. The consulting detective is on his knees, shirt sleeves rolled up and hair mussed from where he must have been running his hands through it. As far as John can tell there's not a scratch on him. A bit dishevelled, perhaps, but unharmed. Apart from the pure, wild worry in his silvery eyes, and the fact that he looks absolutely beside himself.  
"_John_?" he's murmuring, leaning in close to inspect the doctor's pupils and snaking one hand round to check his pulse. His tone is urgent, hurried, "John, are you alright?!" Nodding weakly, John manages to say with much more strength,  
"M'fine. S'just a headache." It is blatantly clear to Sherlock that more than _just a headache_ is causing his blogger to make those noises, but it's also obviously nothing serious. His shoulders sag, huffing out a lungful of breath that he hadn't realised he was holding, and brushes a hand into the older man's hair as he brings his lips down on John's cheek, the side of his nose, jaw, chin in a rain of relieved kisses. John spares a second to be surprised at the sudden overload of emotion coming from the once self-proclaimed sociopath – then decides he couldn't give less of a fuck about how uncharacteristic it is and buries his pounding head into the crook of Sherlock's neck, inhaling deeply, because they've only gone and got themselves bloody kidnapped by a bunch of killers and God knows they both have good reason to be worried.

Sherlock's skin smells of sweat and a lingering trace of soap and shampoo, and a rich, velvety scent that to John has always meant _home_ and _cases_ and _tea_ and _safe_. He breathes in as much of it as he can whilst the detective clings to him, imagines that it makes the pain of his sore joints go away. Lets it warm him through to the core and slow his racing heart. _Stay calm, Watson_, orders a firm voice that sounds a lot like the leader of his unit in Afghanistan. _You're being held captive by the enemy, so first things first, you keep your bloody head and figure out what your situation is_.  
_Keep my head. Figure out the situation. Got it._ Only now does he notice the low mutters in his ear,  
" – kept checking your pulse every ten minutes but I was starting to be concerned didn't know what they'd given you – " and somehow John finds the strength to pull back to face his flatmate and open his mouth to ask,  
"How long was I out?" Sherlock doesn't even miss a beat.  
"Eight hours," he replies. He sinks back down, letting John go but keeping a hand his knee. It's an unconscious action, one that goes unnoticed by both men, especially seeing as the blogger is too busy swearing under his breath. "It's just gone half past seven. But this room is windowless, obviously. There's no way in or out apart from that door." He turns his head. John follows his gaze to the right and notices that there is indeed a panelled door set into the wall; he can just make out the shape of it there in the shadows. "Multiple locks. Not pick-able, even if they hadn't turned out all our pockets." John's face falls.  
"I thought they might have done that," he says.  
"They took our phones. Wallets. Keys. All I have is my watch. And yours, in my coat." Brow creasing, the doctor's eyes flit to the Belstaff flung over the back of the loveseat, alongside a scarf and suit jacket.

"They let you keep my watch?" Sherlock nods, but there's something grim in his expression as he gets up off the floor.  
"Yes, they did." He moves across the room, and John sees for the first time that there's another end table partially enveloped by the shadow of a bookcase. On it is a large transparent jug of water, and two cups. Sherlock fills both and taps a fingernail against the jug, making a hollow clicking noise. "It's all plastic," he explains, returning to kneel once more. "So we can't hurt ourselves or others with broken glass, I expect." He gently lifts a cup to John's lips, tilting slightly so the doctor can drink. John abruptly realises just how dry his mouth is, completely parched. He drains the first cup in seconds, and although he tries to politely refuse when Sherlock offers him _his_ cup the detective isn't having any of it, and that goes down quickly too. "Better?" he rumbles, swiping at the corner of John's mouth with his thumb.  
"Yeah, much. Thanks." Clearing his throat, John's eyes follow Sherlock as he goes to pour himself a drink from the rapidly emptying jug. He makes up his mind not to have anymore for a while; it goes against his training, but Sherlock is the one who needs to stay hydrated most. His brain is going to get them out of here, not John's. "They seem to have gone to a lot of trouble for us," the blogger says. There's still a slight rasp to his voice. "Making us comfortable prisoners. Except..." He wriggles his wrists, flinching as pain shoots through his shoulder and the handcuffs jingle.

Sherlock feels so utterly useless, watching John biting down on his bottom lip to stop more whimpers and groans from slipping out. He sips his water and winces, knowing how much John's cramping muscles must be hurting, not to mention the God-awful headache. It's _his_ fault that they're here in the first place. If he'd just stopped to think, at the morgue, that the Puppeteer had multiple reasons for planting those fifty pound notes on Gregson's body – that he didn't just want Sherlock to figure out the copper's dirty little secret, but to also lead himself and John to a place where they could be easily abducted – then they wouldn't be in this mess. He's spent the last few hours feeling bad enough as it is, but seeing his blogger in pain is only making it worse. "I'm so sorry I can't get you out of those," Sherlock murmurs, stomach twisting guiltily. "Even if I had a pick or a pin, they've no keyholes. Combination lock. Brand new, no wearing on the keys. Seven digits, at least nine million possible different combinations." Sighing deeply, he swallows the rest of his water in one gulp and sets the cup down on the table. "I expect they drugged and handcuffed you because you were the most likely to put up a fight. They knew that if you were in any way endangered or incapacitated I would comply with their demands rather than risk you be hurt." Their eyes meet across the room, flickering blue and shadowed grey. John thinks back to that moment in the tunnel, to Sherlock's scarf in his fingers and those orbs so close and the somersaulting of his stomach and he wants to say..._something_, just _something_. But the words stick in his throat like glue, and he can only hold the detective's gaze with utter steadiness and surety and hope that he understands. Sherlock looks right back at him, but doesn't dare believe what he sees in the doctor's eyes. Instead he coughs lightly, and goes on, "I was blindfolded for the journey here, my hands tied with rope. They only freed me once we were in here. But I know exactly where we are." John perks up so fast that he jars his shoulder again.

Muttering a, "_Bugger it_," he allows an impressed smile to grace his features: he knew Sherlock would have deduced something. He tries not to sound too excited or too relieved at the thought of escaping as he asks, "Where?" It's not hard, because all his newfound hope starts to drain away when that grim expression returns to Sherlock's face. The detective's brow creases, lips pressing together in a firm line, as though about to deliver some particularly bad news. John finds himself wishing, just for a moment, that he was still unconscious. And then Sherlock begins to speak.  
"It was roughly a four and a half hour drive in a Northerly direction from London to here," he explains. "When we got out of the car a strong, cold wind was blowing telling me that there were few, if any trees in the immediate area to provide shelter or a barrier against the elements. An open landscape. The consistency of the ground underfoot was solid, steady, not muddy but not particularly grassy - at least, not like in London. We walked for a minute or so, with the wind weakening. A driveway, some trees. Those factors combined with _this_ wood – " he taps on the solid panelled walls, " – told me that we are in the basement of a large manor house in the Yorkshire Dales." John gapes. But Sherlock isn't finished. Sinking down onto the sofa, the lamp throws shadows and light across the angles of his face. "Then there's the fact that I recognised the various scents of the outdoors. The creaks of the floorboards. How many small, childlike steps it takes a blindfolded person to cross from the front door through the hallway to the basement. That there's a well-worn copy of _Treasure Island_ in that bookcase." John knows what's coming before the words even leave his mouth.

"I know exactly where we are because I've been here before, a long time ago. This was my childhood home."

XxX

_10:03pm_

Greg lets out a sigh as he knocks again on the door of 221B, pushing his hands into his trouser pockets. It's late but he knows that Sherlock and John will still be up, working or watching telly, and won't mind his intrusion – that is, if they ever open the bloody door. Really, he wouldn't even have to be here right now if they'd just answered their phones. It's not unusual for Sherlock to ignore Greg's texts if shut away in his mind palace, or buried in a case, but John _always_ replies. Especially if it's important, like _Stu needs advice on rings can you meet us at the pub at nine?_ But tonight he didn't answer. He didn't make it to the pub either, and so after a beer for the DI and an orange juice for the nurse they'd called it off for the night: best to have this discussion when all three of them were present. Stu headed to St. Bart's for his shift and Greg came here, looking for the doctor, or at least a disgruntled consulting detective. He'd been a bit mystified at the strange lack of response from the duo before, but now there's no denying the tendril of worry curling in the pit of his stomach. Waiting there on the landing, Greg tells himself not to be stupid. That Sherlock probably got himself caught up with a new case or a lead and dragged John along for the ride. Or maybe – and he can't help but grin smugly at the thought – after the events of last night they're _otherwise preoccupied_. Bit of adrenaline, bit of excitement on top of all those pent-up feelings and emotions. John filled him in on that Big Fight they had in the kitchen, the black eye and the promise.

Sherlock Holmes may take him for a fool sometimes, but Greg Lestrade is a very observant man. He's noticed the gradual shift in atmosphere between them; the way they went from keeping metres apart at crime scenes to standing almost _too_ close. The slowly warming gaze with which John looks at Sherlock, and the softness of Sherlock's famously sharp eyes whenever they turn to the blogger. Then there's the way the two of them talk, some of the old good-natured insults and married-couple bickering slipping back in. It's like watching his friends fall in love all over again. And Greg sincerely hopes, knocking a third time, that if they really _are_ busy rogering each other on the living room carpet then he isn't about to scar himself for life. He leans in, and tentatively presses an ear to the door to see if anyone's actually home.

Not a peep. Total silence.

And it sets off all kinds of alarm bells for the Detective Inspector, because this isn't like Sherlock and John at all. They don't just _disappear_. If they're following up a lead important enough to keep them out all day then nine times out of ten NSY is involved, and the other times John always lets Lestrade know what's going on. They've needed police back-up on more than a few occasions, after all. Sherlock effectively going radio-silent is one thing, but John? No. Not normal behaviour. Concern rapidly building, Greg tries the door handle, wondering if they'll have bothered locking it because really, if London's most dangerous criminal can come and go as he pleases then what's the point? The door swings open. "John?" He steps cautiously inside, looking around. "Sherlock?" He peers into the kitchen, the bathroom, through the small gap of Sherlock's ajar bedroom door. Nothing. Light footsteps sound on the stairs just as he's walking back into the living room and he turns, hopeful, to see who it is – but it's just Mrs Hudson, wringing her hands.

"Oh, Greg dear," she sighs out. She seems unperturbed at his unannounced presence, but worry crinkles the edges of her eyes and if Greg didn't know any better, he'd say that her face falls a bit in disappointment.

"Hello, Mrs Hudson," he replies, doing his best to sound calm and forcing a smile. "I was just looking for John and Sherlock."

"Well, you see, I was hoping that it was them I could hear moving around. Oh." Letting out another sigh, Mrs Hudson looks as though she'll wring her hands right off if she doesn't stop soon. Greg swallows, feeling the tendril of worry in his stomach grow.

"Haven't you seen them?" he asks, arms folding across his chest as he slips into _Detective Inspector _mode. The landlady shakes her head.

"Not since this morning," she says, "when they went off to the morgue to look at a body. John said they'd be home for dinner, but that was hours ago now..." A sudden _beep!_ from Greg's coat makes her trail off, and he thrusts a hand into his pocket to retrieve his phone. _1 new message. _He opens the text and immediately the tendril coils, and blossoms into something like fear.

From: Unknown Number.

Received: Sun 22:15

_It appears we have a rather serious problem, Gregory - MH_

XxX

_10:57pm_

Sherlock is just glancing at his watch (growing more and more impatient with each second that goes by) when the silence is suddenly broken. John lifts his head, the simple action causing every one of his sore muscles to protest as he looks to the door. A grinding of bolts, the scraping of a key in a lock, and it opens. Bright light floods the basement, but that's all he gets to see, because at that moment Sherlock is on his feet and practically throwing himself between the doctor and their visitors, fists curled as if ready to throw a punch. It's the most possessive move he's ever made, and John thinks he'd be rather enjoying it if he wasn't currently handcuffed to a chair. Unable to move more than a few centimetres in any direction, he can't peek around the detective's body to see who else is there; but then there's a low chuckle, and a deep, gravelly voice says, "Relax, Mister Holmes. I'm here to take Doctor Watson's cuffs off."  
_Ah, that must be the bloke Sherlock mentioned_, thinks the distant part of John's brain still reasonable. The rest of him is screaming more along the lines of _thank fuck at last out of these bloody things God you took your damn time whoever the hell you are_ –

There are a few tense seconds where his partner's thin frame stiffens, fists flexing, and the possibility of a fight breaking out seems inescapable. But then Sherlock relaxes. Most of the tension eases from his back and shoulders, all that John can really see, and he steps aside. John has to blink a few times in the light before Gravel Voice comes into focus.

For such a rough, potentially frightening voice, he isn't all that physically imposing. Dark-haired, blue-eyed, lightly tanned skin. He's dressed simply in a black suit and tie, with an earpiece and pocket square, and the two men blocking the doorway behind him are in the same ensemble. They look more like the Men in Black than a group of killers, but John keeps his mouth shut. Gravel Voice also has the combination to the cuffs and, despite the easy grin he wears, something tells the doctor that pissing him off would be a bad idea. "There," Gravel Voice practically purrs as he smiles at Sherlock, "That wasn't so hard, was it?" The genius doesn't reply. Turning his eyes to John, now, the man takes a step forward. "Doctor Watson. It's a pleasure." Swallowing, John manages a stiff inclination of his head. For some reason, this makes Gravel's grin brighten and his eyes sparkle. "My name is Joseph Moran." A few feet away, Sherlock goes absolutely rigid, a peculiar expression coming over his face. "Here, let me help you with those..." _Joseph_ moves closer, dropping down to a knee behind John and starting to fiddle with the cuffs. Letting out a deep breath, John half-expects to feel the cold hardness of steel pressing into his back at any moment as he finds Sherlock's eyes, knowing that that name must mean something to him. What he sees there makes his heart stop and start again.

But then the cuffs are sliding off with a click, and all he can think about for a minute after that is the pain surging through his arms and shoulders when he moves them just a little. Joseph returns to his previous spot, still grinning. "There. Much better," he says, slipping the cuffs into the inside pocket of his jacket. John winces, grunting as he pulls his arms through the bars and up to his chest, flexing numb fingers. "Now, business." Joseph's tone takes on an edge of formality, as though addressing guests of an establishment. "I'm afraid that, due to an unexpected delay, the two of you will be spending the night here with us – " He reaches up and touches his earpiece, gaze flickering to the floor for a few moments. Listening. Then he mutters, voice tinged with a faint note of impatience, "_Può aspettare_?" A sigh. "_Lascia stare_." A pause. "_Sì_." And then whoever he was talking to goes quiet, and his hand drops. John notices the tiny little microphone curled around his earlobe. "As I was about to say, gentlemen," Joseph goes on, smile reappearing, "we have prepared one of the upstairs bedrooms for you. You will of course be provided with food and water, and you _will _be under armed guard. My employer will have returned by morning, at which time he wishes to meet with you both." The man clearly isn't making a request, looking between them expectantly. John's stomach is tying itself in knots out of sheer dread and he turns to Sherlock, finds the detective watching Joseph with that horrible, unsettling emotion still in his eyes.

John slowly pushes himself out of the chair, nearly falling when a spasm shoots through his seized-up hip. But before he can do anything of the sort gentle hands are under his arms and keeping him on his feet, pulling him close to a warm body. Sherlock's grip on his jacket is like iron. He senses rather than sees his partner give a curt nod.

"Thank you, Mister Holmes. If you'll both gather your things and follow me..."

XxX

_11:00pm_

He's never seen Mycroft Holmes look dishevelled. In fact, he's never seen the man look anything other than completely and utterly composed, as if total control were part of his genetic code. But now, sitting across a dark-wood antique desk from him in his richly furnished office, Greg can see the cracks beginning to form in Mycroft's mask of calm.

A sleek black Mercedes had been waiting for him when he left 221, mere minutes after receiving the text. He only knows one 'MH' and has heard about Mycroft's 'surprise abductions' plenty of times from John, so when a Blackberry-wielding brunette rolled down the backseat window and told him (no ifs or buts about it) to please get in, he did as he was told. Because something was decidedly Not Right and Mycroft, judging from his text, seemed to know more about it than he did. Only, on that front, Greg is quickly realising he was wrong. His fingers clutch at a glass of brandy politely offered to him, but he has yet to drink from it. Despite being able to count the number of times he's interacted with him on one hand (most of which occurred back when Sherlock was an unknown, half-dead addict constantly strung out on cocaine) the DI doesn't feel any of the apprehension that other people do in Mycroft's presence. He's never been easily intimidated, and doesn't see why he should start now. Perching on the edge of his seat, Greg looks the British Government up and down: slumped in his chair, three-piece suit still immaculate but his face is heavily lined, though not with anger. Brandy glass half-empty. Mycroft lets out a breath that could be a sharp sigh, for a moment looking very, very tired. But then he pulls himself together, straightening up and fixing Greg with a determined gaze, and starts to speak.

"The last time I personally laid eyes on my brother was this morning," he explains, "when I stopped by to tell him that, following last night's events, I considered the Puppeteer case to be of personal importance and would be putting my people on it immediately." He pauses, and Greg gets the sense that Mycroft expects him to protest this move, to defend the Department's ability to handle this alone. And he supposes he would, if they weren't so obviously out of their depth with this one. So instead, he simply nods and sips at his brandy. Mycroft continues. "Surprisingly, he agreed to let me place a security detail on himself and John, on the condition that it be as of tomorrow. He claimed he wanted one more day of relative privacy with John; I imagine he only agreed out of fear for the doctor's safety." Even though they are both thinking it, neither man mentions that before John, the young, drug-addled Sherlock Holmes would never have worried for another. Would not have cared. "I left at approximately nine o'clock, and didn't realise something was wrong until half past nine this evening. The security detail was supposed to start at midnight, but we couldn't locate Sherlock or John beforehand."

Mycroft reaches to his right and opens a desk drawer, pulling out a sheaf of papers. "I agreed to those terms, of course," he says, with a definite sigh this time. "But I never had any intention of meeting them fully." He lays down the first paper on the desk, upside-down so that Greg can see. The Detective Inspector leans forward to get a better look – it's not paper at all, but a glossy, blown-up photograph of Sherlock and John. They appear to be leaving 221. "The two of them left Baker Street at just after ten o'clock. Ten minutes later I had my people enter the building and install a hidden camera in the bookcase, which is how I saw you. Via CCTV I could track Sherlock and John's taxi to St Bartholomew's." A second photo is laid out, this one of the duo exiting a cab outside the hospital.  
"Must've gone to look at Gregson's body," Greg mutters to himself, although Mycroft nods along anyway.  
"Indeed. They were there for less than half an hour, leaving at quarter past eleven and getting into another taxi." A third photo. "The last sighting via CCTV was at quarter to twelve – " he lays out the last picture, " – when they turned off Attling street into an alleyway." Greg's eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline. Swiping the photo from the table, he says in a tone thick with disbelief,

"But – but_ that's_ – "

"The way to Sherlock's old dealer's lair, yes." Mycroft's expression is grim, pulling down the corners of his mouth as he leans back in his seat. "It's a maze of tunnels and homeless drug addicts." He downs the last of his Brandy. "But what's most intriguing, Gregory, is that every CCTV camera in the immediate vicinity of an exit from that labyrinth simultaneously ceased recording twenty-eight minutes later." The DI finds himself wondering, briefly, when exactly they transitioned from '_Detective Inspector Lestrade'_ to '_Gregory'_, before the thought is dismissed and replaced by a far more significant realisation.

His gut tells him that whatever has happened to Sherlock and John (abducted most likely, _please God let them still be alive_) the Puppeteer has something to do with it – because honestly, who else on God's green Earth would be capable of fooling and vanishing away the world's only consulting detective and his doctor? Who else, now that '_Richard Brook_' is dead, could have people working for him on the inside to carry out his bidding? "We need to call Molly," he tells Mycroft, and if his tone was serious before, it's deadly now. They're dealing with a man who makes Jim Moriarty look like a _Disney villain_. "Find out what Sherlock discovered at the morgue. Examine the body ourselves. In the meantime we need to have a team interview the homeless for any possible witnesses, and not just in the tunnels; Sherlock's Network have eyes everywhere." For a second, Greg thinks he sees something like a smile tug at the edge of Mycroft's lips, as if in approval. Then the eldest Holmes replies,

"My people are already interviewing on the streets." Standing up, Greg fishes his phone out of his pocket and presses 7 on speed dial. Mycroft rises, sobering once again as the DI presses the phone to his ear. "I'll call for a car," he says. "Tell Miss Hooper we'll pick her up on the way."

XxX

_11:03pm_

The room they are escorted to is sizable and richly furnished: a ridiculously large four-poster bed sits in the centre of one wood-panelled wall, flanked on either side by carved bedside tables containing a lamp and a telephone; to the right an antique writing desk is pressed up against the same wall, looking out into total darkness through a huge window that stretches from floor to ceiling. There's also a door, though where it leads to John has no idea. To the left, another window is set into a second wall; either side of it are a towering ornate wardrobe and chest of drawers, and a dressing table complete with mirror. The carpet is soft, cream, the curtains heavy and red velvet. A light styled to look like a chandelier hangs from the ceiling. "This used to be my parents' bedroom," Sherlock murmurs the instant the door is locked behind them. Steely eyes sweep over surroundings he hasn't seen in decades, completely unchanged since his boyhood. He's never really felt sentimental about the place before, but now it makes a strange feeling wriggle inside his chest to know that the happiest memories of his very early youth are being tainted.

This house was his safe place. A place where he wasn't _Freak_, wasn't _Weirdo_ or any of the other things he would one day come to be labelled. Here he was just a three-year-old – a highly intelligent three-year-old, mind you, but one who was adamant that he could deduce where Captain Flint _really_ buried his treasure, and that he would go on to sail the High Seas for the rest of his days. He'd had no inkling that he was any different from other children, because Mycroft could deduce things too (although he was more interested in politics than pirates, and frowned when Sherlock asked the Nanny if she would rather have her husband or her secret boyfriend for a First Mate).

This was also the place he would return to from boarding school, each year slowly closing in on himself, growing more distant from the fierce, wild heart he'd had as a boy. Where he'd turned out the light and shut the door on sentiment, on emotion, for good. Because if he felt nothing at all then he would not feel the hurt of ugly words and skinned knees as he was pushed over in the playground. Had his books burned in the fireplace of his dormitory. Was stripped and tied to a lamppost on his first night at university. _Brotherhood initiation_, Sebastian Wilkes had laughed later, to the guffaws and smirks of their fellow classmates. But they left him there all night, and he was never welcomed into anything.

The hot bowl he carries is burning his fingers.

Dragged back to reality, Sherlock finds that John is already across the room setting his bowl and jacket down on the desk, next to a full jug of water and more plastic cups. "Why 'used to'?" the doctor asks over his shoulder, almost amused at the fact that their captors thought to put the jug on a mat. He winces as a small spark of pain sizzles through his shoulder. Sherlock clears his throat, moving to deposit his own soup, suit jacket, coat and scarf on top of the chest of drawers. Slipping out of his shoes, he peers out the window.

"After my father died, Mummy couldn't bear to live here alone," he explains quietly. "Mycroft was in London and I was at university. She relocated to one of our other properties further North and this house was left in the charge of our housekeeper, cleaners and gardeners." John gives a little quirk of his head at that. God only knows what happened to _them_. Right now, however, there are more urgent things to worry about. Like getting out of here. He picks up the telephone, one of those old-fashioned rotary dial models, holding it to his ear. Nothing. He puts the receiver down with a sigh.

"Bloody phone's dead."

"Of course it is," Sherlock replies, picking up his soup again as he sits down on the bed. The recent changes to his eating habits in order to encourage John are finally catching up to him: he's positively ravenous. "These people will have thought of everything." The detective begins eagerly spooning the stuff into his mouth. "All the windows will be locked, including the one in the en-suite bathroom through there, which is too small to climb out of but will have a guard stationed underneath it anyway. Not to mention we're on the second floor. Then there's the two men currently standing outside our door listening in on our conversation." A pause. An awkward, muffled cough and mutter of,

"How did he _know_ that?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow, point proven.

"And of course," he finishes, "they are all armed." John, ever the soldier, is reluctant to just accept their plight and do nothing. But after a few moments of looking desperately around the room, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides, John deflates. His shoulders sink and he drops his forehead into a palm, sighing again.

"So what do we do if we can't escape?" he asks. "Just sit here and wait to be rescued? Or killed?" Sherlock shakes his head, swallowing, spoon already scraping the bottom of his bowl.

"I'm sure an opportunity for action will present itself," he says. "Sooner or later." He makes an effort to sound confident, to speak with conviction as the mattress dips and John toes off his shoes, settling, soup in hand, on the bed next to him. Sherlock doesn't want the blogger to know that he's afraid, that he's swearing he'll get John out of this alive, no matter the cost. He's already died for him once; he'll do it again, in a heartbeat, if that's what it takes.

But John knows him better than anyone, better than even himself, and he picks up on the slight change in Sherlock's tone. The barest hint of a quiver around the edges of his words. And he also knows that the detective is trying to be brave, to be strong, and so John decides that a change of subject is in order. "This Puppeteer bloke," he says, starting to eat as his stomach growls. "Seeing as he's finally gonna grace us with his presence tomorrow, I think it's about time you told me who he is." John fixes his partner with a meaningful look. "And don't pretend you don't know. You've been sitting on a theory since before the girl in the graveyard." Sherlock smiles, then. Genuinely, lighting up his eyes, because he's never known anyone who can read him like a book the way John does. He clutches his empty bowl in his lap, and after a minute or so of thinking he begins in a low voice:

"It's a trinity, John." Sherlock sees the blogger's brow furrow out of the corner of his eye, but continues anyway. "It's a trinity of minds, all playing the same Game. A consulting detective, a consulting criminal – "

"And a consulting killer," John whispers. Sherlock nods.

"Exactly. I should have known after Moriarty that there would be others like us out there. But unlike dear old Jim, the Puppeteer deals specifically in murder, and murder alone." Leaning back against the headboard, he sighs lightly, and John supposes it must pain him to some degree that every like-minded person he meets is either crazy or a killer. "However, he has a strict criterion for choosing his victims. He kills those he deems guilty. People with dark secrets, people carrying out misdeeds or cruelties. Sometimes he selects them himself, and other times he is approached by members of the public with a name – "

"Wait," John interrupts, holding up a hand. "Hang on a minute." He fixes the genius with an incredulous, disbelieving look. "Are you saying that the Puppeteer is some kind of...what...extreme vigilante?" Sherlock considers this a moment, before giving a little half-shrug.

"In some ways," he concedes quietly. "Though for him, killing is about more than dispensing justice. It's about _art_. About making an example. He takes pride in his work. But what we must really ask ourselves is this – " The detective pins John down under the weight of intense steel and silver, boring into the doctor as he lowers his voice to a rumbling purr.

"If I am something of a sociopath, and Moriarty was a psychopath...then what, my dear John, is _he_?"

XxX

From: G Lestrade

Sent: 00:30am

To: All Departments  
Subject: MISSING PERSONS - URGENT  
Attached: 23a88409d/jpeg; 21934dza5p/jpeg

As of midnight tonight Sherlock Holmes and Dr John H. Watson, whom most of you will know from their work with NSY, are MISSING. Mr Holmes and Dr Watson were last seen at 11:45am Sunday morning when CCTV shows them entering the well-known 'Drug Tunnels' network on Attling Street near Evesham Bridge. It is believed that they were following up on a lead from the Master Puppeteer case and may have been abducted.

We need all eyes, ears and hands on this case. Finding Mr Holmes and Dr Watson is GOVERNMENT PRIORITY.

For those of you who don't know what they look like, I have attached photos of Sherlock and John for identification purposes. Anyone with information regarding this case please contact me IMMEDIATELY (I am aware that this is not my division, but will be leading this investigation following orders from The Top).

Thank you,

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade

XxX

_Monday, 00:31am_

Things take a turn for the awkward when Sherlock's eyes begin to droop, and John is reminded that the detective hasn't slept in days. He plucks Sherlock's bowl out of his hands and deposits it on the desk, along with his own. "Come on," he says, "We'd better get some sleep." Unfortunately, it's only just now occurring to him that sleeping will involve the two of them sharing a bed. John's mouth goes a bit dry and his stomach flips because, well...they haven't done that since the night before The Fall. And after what almost happened between them in the tunnels, the way he'd grabbed his partner by the scarf and dragged him down close and he'd _known_, known what he was about to do and it felt _so good_...He's not sure what this would do to the fragile balance that they've built. But there's nothing for it. There's no good reason for one of them to sleep on the floor when they've a big enough bed right here. "Which side do you want?" Sherlock freezes in the middle of folding his coat by the wardrobe.

His gaze flits to the doctor, surprise plain on his face. Evidently he'd already assigned himself the floor. "I..uh..." Looking to the bed, then at the carpet, he clears his throat. "The left. Please." John nods, and out of habit he reaches up to undo the buttons of his shirt. He soon stops short, because they _are_ prisoners here, after all. And if they have to make a run for it in the middle of the night then he'd rather not do it in his underwear. So instead he pulls back the covers on his side and, trying desperately to ignore the pleasant fluttering of anticipation in the pit of his stomach, climbs into the bed fully-dressed. The duvet is thick and warm, the pillows soft and fluffy. The beginnings of an exhausted itch are forming behind his eyes, and John relaxes into the comfortable mattress gratefully. Suddenly, he's not so concerned about being able to sleep anymore. With his sore muscles and increasingly fuzzy brain, he'll kip like a rock.

Sherlock's chest is doing another strange thing: a kind of twisting sensation, uncertain and nervous. _John has initiated this. John does not mind this. _His legs start to shake beneath him as he crosses to the light switch and flips it, plunging them into darkness. It takes a second or so for his eyes to adjust, and outside the moon slips out from behind a cloud and fills the room with silvery light. Sherlock silently approaches the bed, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, about to stretch out on top of the duvet to afford John some degree of separation from him – but the blogger lifts the covers on his side before he can do so, an invitation for the detective to slip under, to have no barriers between them as they sleep. Sherlock hesitates. There's something innately intimate about sharing a bed with another person, regardless of your state of dress. Sleep makes a person utterly vulnerable in a way that few other things can. _Does he really want this what if this is pushing it too far what if he can't what if this sets us back_? John keeps his eyes on the satin roof of the bed, even though his heart is starting to beat quite rapidly and he doesn't know what he'll do if Sherlock declines his invitation. And then the genius finally moves. He clambers in, and folds his long limbs under the duvet. They both lie there on their backs, gazing upwards without speaking, each making a sincere effort not to look at the other.

John swallows, hard.

They could reach out and touch, if they wanted. It would be so easy. All he has to do is slide his hand across the mattress, slowly, deliberately. John knows Sherlock would take it.

"_So_," he forces out into the unbearable silence. The word is unexpectedly rough. Coughing lightly in the back of his throat, he feels a flush creeping onto his cheeks as he tries again. "What do you think the Puppeteer will say?" Sherlock takes a long time to reply. So long that John glances over at him, elegant profile silhouetted against the glow of moonlight, watching those feather duster eyelashes bat lazily as the man thinks.

"He has clearly been aware of my existence for some time," Sherlock says at last, the whisper of his voice humming through John's chest. "Now that Moriarty is dead, I expect he will want to strike a deal: my co-operation in exchange for your freedom." He sounds so calm, so matter-of-fact as he taps his fingertips on top of the covers. "In which case, I will accept." John's heart stops, and instantly he's wide awake. Adrenaline slides into his veins like a drug.

"_What_?" he asks incredulously, staring at the detective with his eyebrows drawn together and mouth ajar.

"I will accept the offer," his partner repeats steadily. "I will accept and you will be released. Once you get back to London you can help Lestrade and the others track me down with the knowledge you gained from this encounter – "

"You'll do no such thing!" The urgency of John's exclamation catches him off-guard, makes him look to the blogger before he can stop himself. John's form is bathed in silver and shadow, near enough for Sherlock to feel the heat radiating from his body. The genius' pulse thrums in his ears; he'd expected the older man to put up something of a fight.

"It's the most logical decision," he tries to reason, keeping his voice low.

"I _won't_ do it – "

" You'll be able to find me later, you always do – "

"_No._" The doctor's blue eyes are positively smouldering, deepening to hot navy in the semi-darkness. "I'm not leaving you here alone with a bunch of killers, Sherlock." His _Captain Watson_ tone reverberates through the air, firm but not angry, as though trying to make an important point to a new recruit. It makes Sherlock's fingers tighten around the sheets, a lick of heat pooling in the pit of his stomach. "Understand me?" John's tongue wets his lip and Sherlock wants so badly to close this distance between them, to end all the indecision and tense, almost awkward dancing around each other of late, stepping right up to the line but never crossing it. He wants John, all of him, the way they used to be, forever. But he can't have that yet: John has to be the one to make the first move. To make that choice of his own free will, without the coercion of lips or hands. Clearing his throat, the detective murmurs,

"Understood," and inclines his head in a nod. Because if the positions were reversed, he knows he wouldn't be able to leave John here alone. No matter how logical it would be.

The blogger watches him for a long moment, searching for sincerity. A sign that he really did make himself clear. He finds it in the burning of Sherlock's gaze, the sharp cupid's bow, the clever violinist's hands scrunching up the duvet. And John relaxes, his expression softening as the tension ease from his frame. "Good," he whispers. "Now let's just...let's just sleep. Okay?" Sherlock nods again, mutely. John tugs the covers up further, breaking eye contact. "Goodnight, Sherlock." The detective rumbles back,

"Goodnight, John." The mattress creaks as they turn onto their sides, backs to one another. Silence envelopes them once more, broken only by the sound of their breathing, soft and quiet. John squeezes his eyes shut but in the absence of conversation his heart begins to pound, driving his exhaustion away. He's hyperaware of Sherlock's body in the bed behind him, can feel the man's presence like an electric current up and down the length of his spine, tingling, making the hair stand up on the back of his neck. And all he can think about now is how much he misses the warmth of that lithe figure against his own, around him, inside him. Misses how they fit together like two perfect pieces of a puzzle. Yin and Yang. Sunshine and starlight. He longs for the tickle of inky curls under his chin, for a familiar scent to warm him through, velvet and cashmere to the senses. He longs for it so badly that he _aches_, deep in the cavities of his healing heart.

His palms begin to sweat.

Sherlock is utterly still, as though afraid to move.

"Oh, _fuck it_," John mutters, quite suddenly, and he rolls over and before he can think better of it he wraps an arm around Sherlock's waist and pulls him, gently, back into his chest.

Then he freezes, unsteady breath filtering out across the back of the detective's neck, ruffling his curls. _Please God do something say something anything just let me know if this is okay – _but one agonising moment later, Sherlock relaxes. Well, _melts_ is more the word for it: he goes positively boneless, a low sigh escaping him like an oath, and covers the doctor's arm with his own. John's eyes slip closed in pure relief, and he, too, thaws into liquid at the feel of his partner.

They are both asleep in seconds.

x

_Phew. Another long chapter for you there. I'm so, so sorry about the delay with these. Turns out starting a degree is even more stressful than I thought, but I couldn't let the chapter go unfinished for another night, and if that means a ridiculous amount of work to do tomorrow then so be it! Thank you all so much for the reviews for last chapter, they were wonderful - bit of a change to the plot here, which means no Puppeteer in this one :( But he will _definitely_ have ample presence in the next chapter. A few things:_

_~ Attling Street and Evesham Bridge are totally fictional. I just needed a place to have the tunnels._

_~ Translation has now been fixed with help from the wonderful Enid_Black :)__ Joseph's words__ translate to: _"Can it wait? Let it be. Yes."

_~ Joseph is Sebastian's brother, that surname choice was deliberate. Sherlock will explain that to John next chapter._

_~ Formatting on FFnet is a pain in the arse, which is why the email format isn't great. It looks better over on AO3!_

_If there's anything else that I've forgotten, I'll come back later. But it's 3am and my bed is calling!_

_Hope you all enjoyed the chapter, thank you for being so patient with me! As always my tumblr and twitter details are on my profile. Chapter 16: "Selfless" will be up in about a week._


	16. Selfless - Part I

**Selfless – Part I**

xxxx

x

_Monday, 6:08am_

Molly heaves out a tired sigh as she unlocks the door of their flat, hearing Stu do the same over her shoulder. Stepping inside, she closes the door behind them and locks it again – an old habit, one she's re-adopted since a serial killer started going around cutting throats and stringing people up. The front door opens into the living room, much like 221B, with a half-wall separating the kitchen off to the left. There's also a corridor leading to the bathroom and main bedroom, and a door on the opposite side of the living area that houses the guest room. The far wall is all windows, curtains drawn closed against the glowing light of dawn. The walls need repainting and some of the furniture is second-hand and not in the best nick; but there are books, a soft carpet and cushy sofa, perfect for when Stu cuddles into her lap at the end of a gruelling shift and listens to her read to him until he falls asleep. It's not much, but it's home. And speaking of shifts –

Stu has disappeared into the darkness of the room while Molly hangs up her jacket and dumps her bag by the door, rubbing at sore eyes. She's spent all night at the morgue with Greg and Mycroft, going over Rob's body and Sherlock's behaviour during his own examination of the corpse. Not that she was able to tell them anything of use; Sherlock had been as cryptic as ever, and Greg didn't understand what the detective meant by 'Mister Gregson's little secret'. Mycroft, however, had taken one look at the fifty pound notes and the red dust under Rob's fingernails and had whipped out his phone, calling his 'people'. He seemed to think that the dust allows them to pinpoint the _exact_ location from which Sherlock and John were kidnapped, enabling them to save time and search only _that_ area (some kind of tunnels, or something) for evidence of their abductors. No one had wanted to mention that these people, whoever they are, are far too professional to go leaving evidence behind. It's a longshot, but it's the only lead they've got so far. After hours and hours of deliberation and theorizing, Mycroft and Greg were finally satisfied and returned to their respective offices. And now it's six o'clock, and she's exhausted and worried sick about her friends, and the day off that she reserved for _Books and Cuddles with Stu_ is going to be spent sleeping and stressing instead.

A faint golden hue seeps into the room as the curtains are opened, dawn creeping slowly over London. Stu takes one look at Molly's face and reads all the supressed emotions there, the fear and frustration, the anger at herself for not being able to help more. Molly Hooper doesn't wear her heart out on her sleeve quite the way she used to, but he sees straight through her anyway. Throwing his jacket over the back of a chair, Stu crosses the short space to her from the window and takes her in his arms. She wraps around his waist, head tucked under his chin. He's not a large man by any means, but at times like these the pathologist just seems so _small_, the look in her eyes making him want to fold her up like paper and slip her into his pocket, into his skin, safe and sound. Stu makes a mental note to ask again about switching from night shifts – she's a big girl and she can handle herself, but he leaves her alone too much with a killer on the loose, and he hates it.

"I called every hospital in a fifty-mile radius," he murmurs, tired eyes drooping. "Nothing. I'll call more later, when I go back to work." He feels Molly nod against his chest, though this news doesn't do much to alleviate their worry. Just because Sherlock and John haven't been brought in anywhere doesn't mean they're not injured. It doesn't even mean they're still alive, but Stu refuses to so much as consider the alternative. And Molly's thoughts seem to be along the same lines, because her hold on him is slowly tightening, and clinging is something she only does when she's upset. Pulling back just enough to touch her face, he tilts Molly's face up with a finger under her chin. "Hey," he says softly, green eyes gentle. "They'll be alright, Molls. John's a trained killer and Sherlock's a genius…" If she senses at all that he's trying to reassure himself as much as he is her, she doesn't say anything. Instead, some of the tension starts to seep out of her frame as he continues, "And we all know that they'll both choose knives, bullets, and even death itself before they willingly let something happen to each other." It's a statement that rings all too true to Molly, who helped Sherlock Fall, whose mind flashes back to that night in her flat with the consulting detective. He'd been dead for twelve and a half hours, and had spent the last six of them curled up on Molly's sofa trying to hide his emotions from her. But he'd just let go of the only man he loved, a man who loved him and who he might not even see again; even the pathologist could feel how much Sherlock was hurting as he described the first case he and John solved together, the one with the cabbie, and how John shot the man dead without a second thought when Sherlock was in danger. They'd only just met, and Sherlock had never had anyone Not Mycroft who'd wanted to protect him before. But it was his turn to protect John, now. That night was the first and only time Molly has seen the genius cry.

Stu is right. There's no safer place for John and Sherlock to be than with each other. Nodding, Molly goes up on her tiptoes and presses her lips to Stu's, unravelling her arms from around him to tug at the front of his shirt. "Bath?" she suggests quietly. "Then bed?" The nurse smiles. With all the chaos he hadn't had time to shower before leaving work, and they haven't had a bath together in ages.

"Good idea," he says, leaning down to kiss her again. He lingers a bit longer this time, just because he can, because he doesn't know what he'd have done if Molly was the one to be taken, and as soon as this thought crosses his mind he's pulling her closer and feeling fingers thread into the ruffled mess of his hair, suddenly not quite so tired after all.

And then there comes a low tutting.

They break the kiss and turn so fast it would be almost funny, if it weren't for the woman now standing in the living room. Slender and heeled, inky curls pinned up around her flawless face, she takes a step forward and folds her arms across her chest. "If I'd known that the sweet thing from the morgue was going to take herself off the market," she says, disappointment tugging at her crimson lips, "I'd have come to visit _much_ sooner." Molly's jaw drops. She barely even registers Stuart moving to half-shield her body with his own, unable to explain why he feels so distinctly threatened by this woman.

"How did you get in here?" he demands, sounding uncharacteristically dangerous, but all the stranger does is laugh.

"There's no need to be so _protective_," she tells him, in tones so sultry that it sounds hardly like an admonishment at all. "Though it _is_ rather adorable…" Mascara-rimmed eyes rake up his body, taking him in. She hums appreciatively. "You know, there's not many reasons why I would change teams, except for Sherlock. But I think you might be one of them." And Molly, who until now has been shocked into silence, does _not_ like the sound of that. Stepping out from behind her boyfriend, she lifts her chin and asks, pointedly,

"Have we met?"

The stranger's smile makes a blush creep onto Molly's cheeks as she turns sharp eyes to her. She's dressed expensively, in a black two-piece suit with no visible shirt underneath, the buttoned jacket hinting but not quite revealing. A necklace glitters at her throat but her ears are bare, and she doesn't look at all like someone Sherlock Holmes would know. "No," she practically purrs, sauntering forward a few more steps. Stu has half a mind to pull Molly back behind him. "But I do know _all about you_, Miss Hooper. I'm an old friend of Mister Holmes." She extends a hand, revealing perfectly manicured scarlet nails. "Most people know me as The Woman. You, my darling, can call me Irene." Out of the corner of her eye Molly sees Stu relax somewhat – logically no 'friend' of Sherlock's (who barely even has any acquaintances) would pose a serious threat to them. And because she's no longer the shy, stammering pathologist that she once was, Molly takes the offered hand and shakes, just once. She doesn't smile.

"Sherlock's friends don't call him 'Mister Holmes'," she says bluntly. The Woman shows off pearly whites.

"More than a friend, then." The implication of that hits Molly like a smack in the face, but even as her eyes go wide The Woman is already moving on. "At any rate," she says, the suggestiveness abruptly evaporating from her words, "it doesn't matter who I am. What matters is what I know, and I know where Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson are."

Molly drops the hand as if she's been burnt, Stu's eyebrows shooting up, and at the same time they both cry, "Where?!" The pathologist's heart is racing, all traces of exhaustion replaced by a rush of adrenaline and now, as The Woman laughs at the urgency in their voices, a sudden prickle of angle rolls up her spine. Her lips press together in a tight line, little hands curling into fists. She doesn't know what she intends to do until Stu's fingers wrap around her wrist mid-air, and he hauls her body back into his chest. She's struggling against his hold and might possibly be shouting, all her pent-up worry and fear making her temper snap like a twig. And then Stuart coos something into her ear that calms her, and she stops fighting, face flushed and chest heaving, and she resists the urge to grin at the open-mouthed look of surprise on The Woman's face.

Turns out Molly Hooper can throw a punch, after all.

It takes only a moment for Irene to recover herself; when she does she straightens up, expression returning seamlessly to a smile. "Pity you didn't lose your temper with dear old Jim," she tells the younger woman, and now her voice is dripping sex. "He would have liked it."

"Don't you _dare_ – "

"Relax, darling." The Woman's eyes find Stu's, pale blue boring into green, and for a second she seems to almost smirk. "I won't tell your boyfriend here about your little…_history_." And then she grins, because Molly wears her fury plain as day on her face.

"Where are they?" she manages to force out, choosing to ignore the bitchy move. "_Where – ?"_

"_Relax_. I'll tell. I owe Sherlock a favour for a _wonderful_ time in Karachi. But first…" Irene moves over to the sofa and sits down, crossing her legs, looking for all the world as if she owns the place. "First, I want to know how you helped him fake his death. Then I'll tell you, and Mycroft, and all of Sherlock's little family where he and his doctor are."

XxX

_6:15am_

Sherlock is woken by a bright ray of sunshine in his eyes, streaming in through the open curtains and lighting up the room in gold and yellow. The glare of it makes him scrunch his face up, yanking the sheets higher and turning over, with some difficulty, onto his other side. Only then does he register the arm wound tightly around his waist, and the sleeping blogger it belongs to. He gives a start, the events of yesterday flooding back. _Gregson, kidnapped, basement, Joseph_. And last night, hitting him like a freight train and forcing the breath from his lungs: John reaching out for him in the darkness. John holding him. _Cuddling_, technically. Sherlock's heart skips a beat. _He initiated that. He wanted that. _It doesn't matter, then, that they are prisoners. It doesn't matter that they're miles and miles away from home, held against their will by a group of intelligent serial killers. All that matters to Sherlock is the warmth of John's embrace, the steady rise and fall of the doctor's chest, and the complete, total serenity on his face. It's a colossal effort for the detective not to reach up, trace careful fingertips over those soft features the way he once used to. John looks so young when he sleeps, all the lines and creases and years of sorrow fading away, untroubled, unburdened. Much the way Sherlock imagines he used to be, before Afghanistan and his bad shoulder. Before they met. Before the Fall.

But the illusion is slowly vanishing. The older man's breathing changes, quickens, and he stirs. Sherlock goes very still as drowsy eyes flicker open.

He expects John to push him away. To do a double-take at the very least, because with their legs tangled and their faces mere inches apart, there's no denying the intimacy of their position. And he still does not dare to hope, yet, that his blogger could be ready to forgive him. He couldn't take it if they were set back now. But John does no such thing. He simply looks. Sweeps his gaze over the thin form pressed firmly against his own; a wrinkled shirt, a smooth expanse of pale skin and beauty marks, a mess of ebon curls haloed by sunshine. He blinks, languidly, and does not move. They gaze at each other for endless minutes, silent. Watching. Sherlock had forgotten what it was like to be held. No amount of wistful longing, of imagining John's arms around him in the biting cold of a winter's night in Moscow, could have adequately replicated this. And he lets himself pretend, just for a moment, that they aren't in danger. That they're here for the summer, perhaps as part of some Holmes family reunion that John would have insisted he attend – or even better, an early retirement. He pretends that bees are buzzing lazily outside in the garden, that they're alone in this old, familiar house that's really far too big for just the two of them. He pretends that John is healed and that they have absolutely no reason at all to move from this bed for the next few hours. And then the doctor asks him in a whisper, "Do you still want to kiss me?"

Sherlock's fingers tighten around the sheets clutched to his chest. _Oh God, John, _he thinks. _If only you knew._ He licks at his bottom lip, mouth going a bit dry as those eyes bore into him, intense and inescapable. His heart is beating so loudly that he's certain John can hear it. "Yes…" he murmurs back. John's gaze darts down to his mouth, back up to grey orbs, and he can sense the hesitation behind the word.

"But?" Swallowing, Sherlock thinks of all the lazy Sunday mornings they used to spend this way, tangled up in the duvet at home for sleepy snogging sessions or long conversations about nothing in particular. A deep, dull ache blooms in his chest.

"But…" he begins, slowly, "…I'm afraid that if I do, I won't be able to stop." John's tongue rolls out to wet his lip. His eyes are smouldering again, but it's a different kind of burn this time. The detective feels suddenly cold as John's hand lifts from the small of his back, removing his arm from around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock's heart plummets into the pit of his stomach and for a moment he's certain that he's gone and said the wrong thing, said too much – until there's a rustle of fabric and gentle, callused fingertips touch, lightly, to his cheek.

Sparks shoot across his skin and the breath hitches in his throat, the barest of contact enough to make his eyelashes flutter (something he later denies, even to himself, because regardless of how pleasant he finds something Sherlock Holmes does not _flutter_). John's expression doesn't change as he runs the pads of his fingers over his partner's features, along the sharp cheekbone, down to the curve of his jaw. The genius sighs when his face is cupped in a palm, eyes closing, but John is quiet, not wanting to spoil this moment with words. It's such a simple gesture, and he feels the younger man lean into his hand as if seeking warmth. Simple, but it makes him tingle all the way to his toes. And never, in this wordless touch of skin to skin, have they said so much. _I wouldn't want you to stop. Not now. Not ever._ He slides his fingers under the delicate shell of Sherlock's ear and into his unruly hair. Silvery eyes open, burning, pupils blown wide; John's heart skips _one two _starts again, _how can any one person possibly be so – _

Footsteps. Outside the door.

There's a low hum of voices, the scrape of a key in the lock, and the spell breaks. By the time the door creeps open, Sherlock and John are sitting bolt upright in bed. Joseph's head and shoulders appear, perpetual grin in place. He's still suited, booted and wired, not an ounce of tiredness on his face even though it looks as though he hasn't yet been to sleep. "Rise and shine, gentlemen!" he greets them cheerfully, and if it wasn't for the sliver of cold steel peeking out from under his jacket, John would think they weren't prisoners at all. There's no way Joseph doesn't notice the sudden frostiness in their features, but he doesn't mention it. Instead he steams on, "My employer arrived early this morning – " and a cold chill rolls over Sherlock's skin, John's hair standing up on the back of his neck, " – but he has some urgent business to attend to elsewhere. He will return later today, and in the meantime has asked that you be shown to breakfast." All-seeing, blue eyes flit over them, scrutinising. "You have five minutes to rouse yourselves." And then he's gone, closing the door behind him.

XxX

_6:34am_

"Drugs." A dark, perfectly-shaped eyebrow arches.

"Drugs?"

"Yes." A heartbeat.

"Care to elaborate on that?" Molly licks at her dry lips, the memory of that day alone enough to make her feel cold all over. It's something she'd rather forget. Something they'd _all _rather forget, to be completely honest; the cracking of John's voice, a scream, a snap of bone on blood-stained pavement. She thinks she could strangle this woman for making her relive it all over again. Taking a breath, Molly forces herself to meet Irene's curious gaze.

"Muscle-relaxants," she explains, the words shaking slightly as they leave her mouth. "And sedatives." Mycroft had been a bit iffy with the idea, given Sherlock's history of addiction, but the detective insisted it was the only way. And really, it was. _Molly, I think I'm going to die._ "He injected just before meeting J…Moriarty. They were slow-acting to buy him enough time to try and talk his way out. Didn't have a choice in the end." _Tell me what you need_. It was all so awful. So, so awful. Even though she knew it was just a trick, knew that he'd be up and walking around again in a matter of hours, if not minutes…nothing could have prepared her for watching the man she loved die. Because she did love him, once, in her own funny little way. And God knows she spent months agonising over poor John, who more than loved him, who simply couldn't function without Sherlock by his side.

_Look after him. Please. I'm not usually a man to admit such things aloud, but were I to return to a world without him in it – Molly I would fall all over again, and I'd want no one to catch me_.

Molly feels a brush of fingers at her elbow and swallows: Stu, reminding her that she's here, that it's all over. Irene is fixing her with an odd look. "He fell into a parked truck filled with rubbish bags," Molly clears her throat and continues. "Managed to climb out just as the drugs kicked in. They made him slip and hit the ground, snapped his wrist, cracked his head but nothing major." She draws a nail in a short line across her own head, at the back, to indicate the inch-long linear skull fracture Sherlock sustained. He was lucky it wasn't serious, or he'd have needed surgery and the plan would've been ruined. "The relaxants kept him limp for when his Homeless Network started hauling his body around, setting up the blood, making it look real. The sedatives helped keep him silent despite his wrist and head. Slowed his heartbeat so that John wouldn't pick up a pulse, after the arranged tumble he took. But mainly I…" She hesitates. This is a thought that she hasn't voiced to anyone before, not even Stu. "Mainly I think the sedatives weren't for that. They were for Sherlock. I don't think…I don't think he trusted himself to stay in control, watching John go to pieces." There's a pause, and then Molly finishes, "So that's it. No miracles, just some smoke and mirrors. Drugs and a bit of acting. Sorry to disappoint." The Woman looks at her for what feels like a long time, her expression unreadable, before she finally moves. Standing, Irene reaches into her trouser pocket and pulls out a sleek black mobile.

"Thank you, my dear."

The phone is already pressed to her ear as she walks away, and a few moments later Molly hears the bedroom door click shut. Instantly the pathologist throws a hand up in the air before rubbing at her forehead. "I hate her," she mutters, more than a little peeved and more than a little tired. Stu's eyebrows creep warily back down from his hairline.

"Somehow I don't think she feels the same about you," he teases, because otherwise he'd have to nod in agreement. Molly shoots him a Look, rolling her eyes when all he does is grin. Pulling the band from her ponytail, she grumbles,

"_That_ was unexpected, I suppose…" Stu hums, and steps closer as her hair falls about her shoulders. He starts to lightly run his fingers through the brunette waves, knowing it soothes her to have her hair played with, carefully working out any knots as he goes. He smiles in success when she sighs deeply, hugging him close.

"Speaking of the unexpected…who's this 'Jim' guy?" Stu hopes, briefly, that he sounds innocently curious and not, well…jealous. Because it's so silly to be jealous of a man who obviously isn't in Molly's life anymore, regardless of how Irene made their relationship sound. Silly, totally mad, and damn it, if the thought of another bloke with his hands on Molly doesn't rattle easy-going, mild-mannered Stu to the core.

The pathologist stiffens just a fraction in his arms. "Oh," she says. "He, um…" She seems to flounder for a minute, obviously searching for words; Stuart carries on stroking her hair, and decides that if 'dear old Jim' turns out to be the secret love of her life, then he's just going to have to kiss her until she forgets, isn't he? Eventually though, Molly murmurs, "You remember James Moriarty? From the news all those years ago?" and this time Stu is the one who goes quite still.

"The consulting criminal?" he asks incredulously. Molly finds that she's blushing furiously for the first time in a long time. "The guy who stole the Crown Jewels? Who made Sherlock fall?!" Stu pulls back, hands on Molly's shoulders, looking at as though she's sprouted a second head. His green eyes are wide and disbelieving. "The most dangerous man in Britain's history is your ex-boyfriend?!" Molly blinks.

"I dumped him," she blurts out, like that should explain everything. "He was too clingy."

Stu stares at her for one full heartbeat. Two. Three. And then he starts to laugh. Molly opens her mouth to ask what's so funny, but she's already caught up in his embrace, hands on her back and his lips on hers. Stu kisses her, and giggles, and kisses her some more. _Oh, yeah,_ he thinks, sleepiness now a distant memory. _She's a keeper_.

Meanwhile, in the bedroom, Irene is inspecting her reflection in the floor-length mirror of the wardrobe. She can't help but smirk, amused by the irritation of the man on the other end of the line, pleased with the way everything has turned out. "Oh dear, Mister Holmes," she drawls out in fake disappointed tones, "I'm afraid you've quite forgotten your manners." She brushes at an imaginary eyelash on her cheek.

"I am not going to ask you nicely, Ms Adler, if that's what you mean," comes Mycroft's reply; softly-spoken, the words are low and dangerous, and if she were anyone else Irene expects they would send a chill up her spine. But as it is her smile simply grows, tutting into the receiver.

"And to think, I go to the trouble of putting myself at risk to call you and tell you where your dear brother is and you can't even say 'please' – "

"_Ms Adler – _" Irene chuckles, and even the sound of her laughter is smooth and sultry.

"_Mycroft_, really. Calm yourself. I'll talk." Her footsteps are silent as she turns away from the mirror and makes her way to the large window, pulling back the curtains and looking down at the street below. She spies a fire escape, a railing and a balcony, and grins. "You are aware by now that this has all been something of a game, I assume?" There's an affirmative grumble in her ear. "Well, my old friend – what's that delightful nickname the press have given him? Oh, yes. The _Puppeteer_. He doesn't see this as a game anymore. Once he caught Sherlock's attention, it became business. I owed him a favour and so I planted the eyepatch, DVD and cocaine in 221B for him whilst his right-hand man set up the body."

Irene lifts an eyebrow as she cracks the window open, the disappointment now genuine in her sigh. "I left behind my earrings as a sign of my involvement. Frankly, I'm surprised Sherlock misunderstood. He's going to have to do better than that if he wants to survive this."

"We do not have time for confessions!" barks Mycroft impatiently, a muffled thump signalling the collision of his fist with his desk. "If you are deliberately wasting my time – "

"Now, now, there's no need for threats." Irene eases herself up onto the windowsill, slipping off first one high heel then the other. "I owe Sherlock _life_. He saved mine in Karachi. But then I don't expect you've told him that you know." Mycroft's silence is confirmation enough. "I owe it to him to save his life – but here, you see, is where we encounter a slight problem." Sighing again, Irene inspects her nails and hopes that she won't chip the polish in a minute or so. "Because Jim was a very dear friend of mine, and I owe him, also." Oh, he had a temper on him, did Jim Moriarty. He was insane, a loose cannon, and very much male (not exactly her area), but he was _fascinating_. He was powerful and elegantly psychotic and he always, always got what he wanted.

"And what is it that you owe him, Ms Adler?" Mycroft grinds out.

"Death. Jim wanted to destroy Sherlock, but even more than that he was determined that Charles should not win the Game. And Charles is, quite frankly, a shadow I cannot afford to have linger over me forever. He's too dangerous."

Irene nudges open the window with her elbow, glancing left and right along the street, checking for passers-by. Not a soul. "So it must be Sherlock, then," she continues once she's satisfied that her escape will not be witnessed, "who wins in Jim's place; who kills Charles, because no prison could hold him. But the Game wouldn't be a game if I made it easy for you, now would it?" She can practically hear Mycroft trying not to keep a reign on his temper, but if anything it only amuses her more. After all, she herself is walking a thin line here. Really, it wouldn't have become so complicated if the boys had just stopped with their little playground squabbles. "Sherlock once wanted to be a pirate as a child, did he not?" There are a few minutes of confused, begrudging silence from the other end of the line.

"Yes," Mycroft finally answers, slowly. "But I fail to see – "

"Then you know where to look."

"This isn't funny – "

"I said I would talk," Irene cuts him off as she swings her legs out of the window. "I didn't specify how much I would say."

"I can find you – "

"Goodbye, Mister Holmes." And with that she thumbs the End Call button, a satisfied smile curving her crimson lips, and pushes herself out of the window.

XxX

_6:34am_

Try as he might, John can't help but be impressed at the spread laid out for them in what Sherlock referred to as the 'Breakfast Room': there's toast and supplies for making tea, milk, orange juice, coffee; a selection of bran and cereals; porridge; pancakes; anything and everything he's ever considered a breakfast-y food. All of it is organised on a long dark-wood table against one wall, horribly appetizing. And in the middle of it all, on a rotatable shelved display, are pots of jams. _Lots _of pots of jams. Joseph gestures to the circular table in the centre of the room, and tells them to help themselves. They have an hour.

As soon as Joseph disappears, John turns to Sherlock. "None of it is drugged, John," the detective says before he can ask. He eyes the food cautiously. "I expect this is part of a plan to lull us into a false sense of security. They play nice now and then make their demands later." The doctor frowns as his stomach gives a loud growl.

"It's giving me the creeps," he mutters. "Makes me almost wish they'd treat us like proper prisoners." Sherlock nods absentmindedly.

"Mm." Sighing, he starts to roll up the sleeves of his crinkled shirt. Sherlock takes a deep breath.

"Well," he begins, "No sense in letting good food go to waste just because it's creepy." He moves over to the table. There's a stack of shiny white crockery at the closest end; he selects a plate and some cutlery and a cup, and sets about making tea. It doesn't escape his notice, though, that while he's deliberating over which jam to go with his toast, Sherlock simply pours himself a cuppa and sits down at the table. John selects a jam and joins him a moment later.

There's no discussion of an escape plan, or of their captors at all – Sherlock sweeps his gaze around the room once and announces, bluntly, "Bugged. Just like the bedroom."

"Right," John mumbles in reply, and, thinking of their conversation this morning, feels an embarrassed flush start to creep up his neck. The Puppeteer undoubtedly knew that he and Sherlock were once romantically involved, but it doesn't stop John from wishing the floor would open up beneath him. As if it hadn't been crystal clear before, they've proved it now: they are each other's weakness. He tries desperately not to think of Afghanistan, of blades against skin and hot knives and horror stories, as he considers how that information might be put to good use. He may be ordinary but he's not a stupid man – John knows what's likely to happen to him. He unscrews the lid on the pot of jam, and begins spreading it over his toast. Sherlock sips his tea, seemingly far away. That is, until he sets his cup down and says, suddenly,

"John, when all this is over – "

"We've got a lot to talk about, haven't we?" The doctor finds his partner's eyes, and knows the younger man's thoughts are in an upstairs bedroom, with nothing but air and a few inches of heartbreak between them. Sherlock nods, slowly.

"Yes," he agrees. "A lot." He looks nervous. Afraid even. But John isn't afraid anymore, though they still have a little ways to go. Smiling softly, he pushes the plate of toast towards his detective and quirks an eyebrow.

_Eat something_, he says with his eyes. _I will if you do_. Sherlock selects a slice, peers down at it curiously to inspect John's choice of topping. What he sees makes a relieved smile pull at the edge of his lips.

Pineapple _it's all fine_ jam.

XxX

_7:15am_

Irene is getting impatient. It's been twenty minutes since she called for a car, having distanced herself from Miss Hooper's apartment sufficiently – three roads away, she folds her arms over her chest. Kate should have sent the driver by now. She can't afford to wait much longer, hiding down a deserted backstreet like this so as to avoid drawing the attention of Mycroft's CCTV cameras, though she doubts the man will be looking for her. Finding Sherlock and his precious doctor will be his priority. Honestly, she swears she means Sherlock no harm; if it wasn't for this little _situation _she's gotten herself into by doing what she does best (namely manipulating, double-crossing and triple-crossing), and of course if it wasn't for dear Jim, then she'd have simply given away the consulting detective's location immediately. As it is, Irene is confident that Mycroft will figure it out in time. He _is_ a Holmes, after all. Smirking, she checks her phone. _Twenty-two minutes_.

Right on cue, a black Mercedes with tinted windows turns the corner into view. The Woman straights up immediately, watching as the car rolls down the street towards her and slows to a stop, leisurely, as though the driver has all the time in the world. She slips her phone back into her trouser pocket, pursing her lips when Daniel doesn't get out to open the door for her. _Someone's getting a little sloppy in his old age. Will have to see to that. Once we're out of London._ Heels clicking on the pavement, Irene moves to open the door herself and slides with practiced grace into the backseat. "Really Daniel," she scolds, pulling the door shut, "this is unaccept – " And then she stops, because there are _two_ men sitting in the front of the car, and neither one of them is Daniel.

Her hand is on the door handle in the blink of an eye, but the men are faster – the shining, polished steel of a revolver is being levelled at her chest. The middle-aged blonde who wields the gun is grinning, baring sharp teeth, a twinkle in his eye. "Please, Ms Adler," he croons in a voice that makes her skin crawl. "This will be a lot easier if I don't have to shoot you, but I will, if I must." Irene can tell instantly that he means it. She's dealt with enough criminals and underground enterprises to know a killer when she meets one. Her jaw tightening, she sits up straight, hands falling into her lap and lacing her fingers together. The blonde leers. "Good girl." Clearly, Irene thinks, this man must have no idea who she is other than her name, or he'd think twice about the manner in which he addresses her. It's not as though she's been idle in the past few years since Karachi, no – keeping an eye on the not-so-dead Sherlock Holmes on behalf of his older brother keeps one rather occupied, though the freedom Mycroft offered her in return was certainly worth it. And that's without all the new contacts she's made, the secrets, the leverage, the clients, business prospects…she never has been and never will be called _The _Woman for nothing.

So Irene simply smiles back at the blonde and asks, "What does he want from me this time? Is it another favour, or does he expect me to set up another crime scene with Joseph?" It's a surprisingly easy feat to make herself sound irritated, as if the constant phone calls and texts are more inconvenient for her than a face-to-face meeting would be. In reality, she's dealing with the most dangerous man in Britain – if not the world. The fact that Charles is even more dangerous than Jim is not lost on her, nor the risks of meeting him in person, which is why she's managed to avoid doing so for years. "He really could take a few tips from Mycroft Holmes, you know. At least _he_ knows how to treat a lady," The Woman continues, eyeing the gun pointed at her with distaste, just as the other back door of the car is opened.

A third man gets in, long limbs folding up in order to fit, tall and thin. There's a moment of silence broken only by the rustle of fabric as he brushes lint and creases from his navy three-piece suit. His expression is soft when he turns to her and says in smooth, rich tones,

"_Irene_, my dear. So lovely to see you again." A grin plays at the corner of his mouth. His eyes crinkle around the edges.

Irene responds with a smile, "Charles, it's been too long!" and isn't sure how well she hides her shaking.

x

_Oh my God, it's been far too long since I last updated. I'm so sorry. In between university and some minor health problems I've not had as much time to write as I'd like, so it's taking me longer to finish updates. __For this reason, and because I feel awful about making you wait so long, I decided to put Chapter 16 up in two parts. I'm off to start work on Part 2 now; it'll include some more revelations about what's really going on, lots of the Puppeteer, the conclusion of this plotline and the reason why the chapter is titled 'Selfless'._

_And for those of you who are amazingly patient and have stuck with me so far, I can promise you that you will have Johnlock very. VERY. soon. And, once the Johnlock commences, it's pretty much happiness and fluff and good feelings from then on out, to make up for torturing you all for so long._

_Undoubtedly most of you will have worked out who the Puppeteer is by now. I've twisted his story a bit to make it darker, all will be revealed next chapter. Also, I've been agonising over getting Irene's character 'right' - meaning, the Irene who I think she would've become in the years since Karachi, so she may come across as a bit OOC, which I suppose is kind of intentional. I'm babbling._

_As always, thank you to ALL of you for supporting this story (and for supporting me during this rough patch). Twitter and tumblr details on my profile; I post regular progress updates! Chapter 16 Part 2 coming much, MUCH sooner!_


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